


Whumptober 2019

by Aini_NuFire



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: (a lot), Gen, Hurt Aramis, Hurt Athos, Hurt Porthos, Hurt d'Artagnan, Hurt/Comfort, Protective brothers, Whumptober 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2020-11-09 01:42:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 33,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20845463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aini_NuFire/pseuds/Aini_NuFire
Summary: Ficlets based on Whumptober tumblr prompts.





	1. Shaky Hands

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time doing Whumptober and I'm happy to say that I've done all 31 prompts. These are gonna jump all over the timeline, just fyi.
> 
> Disclaimer: The Musketeers don't belong to me. Thanks to 29Pieces for beta reading!

1\. Shaky Hands — Aramis

Aramis prided himself on his skills as a field medic, not just because he held himself to standards of mastery in all tasks, but because when a person was wounded and hurting, they were vulnerable, and Aramis took the responsibility of soothing that fear and pain seriously. Of course, over time he built a reputation as a fine seamstress and it became a matter of pride to uphold the standard.

But of all the occasions where his skills at needlework had been called upon, he had never had to stitch _himself_ up before. Yet here he was, fumbling to thread a needle as he tried to breathe through the pulsing fire searing his leg.

He'd tried to make it to the rendezvous point where he was to meet up with Porthos and Athos, but the slash in his left thigh he'd received from some annoying bandits had refused to stop bleeding, even with his sash wound tightly around it. Riding for the past two hours had only aggravated it further until he knew he was never going to make it to the town without passing out from blood loss. So he'd found a copse off the road and dismounted—painfully—retrieved his medic kit, and hobbled his way over to a tree and slid to the ground against it.

Pain and blood loss were not helping his concentration and it took him twice as long to thread the needle as it should have. He glanced down at his thigh where he'd split his trousers and braes further to get access to the wound. The gash wasn't very long down the outer side of his leg, but it was deep enough. And that angle wasn't going to make for easy sewing either.

But he had little choice. Grabbing a mouthful of his doublet's collar between his teeth, he uncapped the flask of spirits and dribbled some over the wound. The sizzle and burn made him scream into the leather and he threw his head back against the tree trunk.

It took several moments for him to breathe through the worst of it, but by the time he'd recovered his wits enough, his hands were shaking even more. Bending over his leg, he picked up the needle and poked it through one edge of the torn flesh. His leg automatically twitched at the pain, his hand jolting in sync with it. He exhaled harshly through his nose. There was a reason one didn't sew themselves up.

Trying to keep his breaths deep and slow, he inserted the needle through skin again and tentatively tugged the two edges together. He'd had stitches before, but being both the instrument and recipient made his stomach churn as he braced—and flinched—at the anticipated pain of each nip and tuck.

When he tried to make the next suture, his hand was shaking so badly that he couldn't get it to poke where he wanted in order to keep the stitches straight and even. Clenching his jaw, he tried to force it with speed and ended up stabbing too deeply.

Aramis banged his head back against the tree again and closed his eyes, taking a moment to get himself under control. He tried to will his hands to be steady, but of course it didn't work that way. The needle vibrated in his precarious grip, jabbing into his flesh at uneven intervals. Sweat poured down his face, adding insult to misery. Aramis doggedly kept at it though, because there was no other alternative.

The sound of horses' hooves beating the ground brought his head up. He'd been staring at his leg for so long that the shapes in the distance were blurred, but he thought he could make out two blobs. He instinctively dropped the needle and reached for his pistols, praying his vision cleared before the threat came too close.

"Aramis?" someone shouted incredulously.

"Porthos?" he blurted in bewilderment.

The two horses pulled up at the edge of the copse and their riders dismounted.

"Aramis," Athos spoke cautiously. "Are you planning on using those?"

He blinked, shifting his gaze down to his weapons. "Sorry." He shakily set them on the ground.

"What the hell happened?" Porthos demanded, coming to crouch on his right. Athos hemmed him in on the left.

"Ran into some bandits. One of them got in a lucky strike." Aramis furrowed his brow. "Why aren't you at the town?"

"We were headed that way," Porthos answered. "Road forks jus' over there. We thought we recognized yer horse."

Aramis sagged back against the tree. By the grace of God.

"Are you sewin' yerself up?" Porthos exclaimed.

Aramis grimaced as he remembered his task. "It wouldn't stop bleeding. I had to stop, take care of it." Straightening, he picked up the needle that was dangling from the partial stitches in his leg and bent over to resume them.

Athos folded his hand over Aramis's shaking one. "Let me."

"You can't stitch straight," he protested breathlessly.

"At the moment, neither can you."

Aramis huffed but relinquished the needle. The effort of holding himself up and riding out the waves of pain while he continually jabbed himself had been taking its toll and he was grateful for the reprieve. He laid his shaking hands in his lap and closed his eyes as he felt Athos begin to stitch the rest of his leg.

"You all right?" Porthos asked worriedly.

Aramis managed a tired smile. "Now that you're here."


	2. Explosion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who left a comment! Normally I would respond to each one individually but since I'm posting every single day this month, I think that might get a little overwhelming. Just know that I appreciate each and every one and they all make my day a little brighter. ^_^ Also, half of these are Aramis, for those who were wondering/hoping. ;)

2\. Explosion — Athos and Aramis

Aramis thought it was preposterous that someone would try to rob the royal mausoleum. Most of the valuables were _entombed_ with their respective owners and those tombs couldn't just be opened up at a whim. Yet here he and Athos were, taking a look around because the Musketeers couldn't exactly ignore information alerting them to a potential theft of royal property. Though, really, who would that wealth benefit more, the living or the dead?

The two musketeers entered the mausoleum; the place was quiet. Common folk weren't allowed to use the sanctuary—another waste. Aramis roved his gaze over the marble columns, relief moldings, stained glass windows, and mural ceilings of the main chapel. If someone _did_ want to rob the place, there certainly wouldn't be many witnesses around.

A clink in the back drew his attention and he exchanged a look with Athos. Together, they approached one of the halls lined with tombs. Halfway down the corridor, someone was crouched on the floor and fiddling with something at the base of one of the sealed sepulchers.

"Hey!" Aramis called out.

The man leaped to his feet and bolted the other direction.

"Stop!"

Aramis and Athos gave chase, but they'd barely made it a few paces before the wall to their right suddenly exploded. The concussive force slammed into Aramis, rendering him immediately senseless.

He came back to himself with a ragged, gasping cough as he choked on the marble dust coating his mouth and throat. Rolling onto his side, he hacked some more and spat out a foul glob on the previously pristine floor. Rubble shifted on his legs as he moved and he twisted to push it off. Pain shot through his shoulder when he extended his arm and he sucked in a sharp breath, only to choke on an inhalation of more dust.

He curled in on himself with a strangled cry, cradling his arm to his chest as he fought to control his breathing. Something must be broken, maybe his collar bone based on the grinding sensation he felt when he moved.

Taking care to breathe shallowly, Aramis slowly pushed himself upright and looked around. He almost missed Athos, so covered in dust he looked like a granite gisant in a recumbent pose of death. Heart leaping into his throat, Aramis crawled over and reached a shaky hand to Athos's jaw. He dropped his head in relief when he felt a steady throb beneath his fingers.

"Athos. Athos."

The swordsman let out a low moan followed by a cough. Aramis pressed a comforting hand on his shoulder as he woke to a series of abrupt hacking.

Athos blinked dazedly and lolled his head, only to squeeze his eyes shut. "What…?"

"I'm not sure," Aramis replied. "There was an explosion. I guess we know how the robber planned to break into the tombs."

Athos shifted again, his face scrunching up. "I can't move."

Aramis straightened in alarm and scanned his friend's body. If there was blood, it was hidden under the thick layer of dust. Aramis chastised himself for not noticing that Athos's legs were pinned by chunks of rubble.

"Hang on," he wheezed, scooting to Athos's feet and pushing at the marble and granite. Thankfully none of the pieces were too large he couldn't move them, but the effort left him bowed over and panting.

"Aramis?"

"I'm fine," he said breathlessly and gritted his teeth as he straightened slightly and reached out to inspect Athos's legs for breaks. "Does this hurt?"

Athos grunted. "No."

Again, Aramis was relieved, but he furrowed his brow in worry again when Athos failed to try to sit up. He inched back up toward his head. "Athos?"

The swordsman had closed his eyes but now they fluttered open again. "Mm?"

"Does your head hurt?"

"Everything hurts," he said dryly.

Aramis ran his good hand over Athos's hair and found a wet tackiness in the back. It wasn't bleeding heavily, but Aramis knew how unpredictable head injuries could be. He glanced over his shoulder through the haze toward the chapel and the way out, but with his collar bone fractured, he wouldn't be able to carry Athos out.

"Okay," he breathed, more to himself than his friend. "Just lie still. Help will come soon."

"What's wrong with your arm?" Athos mumbled.

"Shoulder. Might be broken," he hedged. "Otherwise I'd be happy to carry you out like a damsel."

Athos narrowed his eyes, which Aramis took as a good sign. "You should go get help."

"I'm not leaving," Aramis said sharply. "Besides, that explosion would have been impossible to miss. Help will already be coming."

"Our thief got away," he muttered.

"Empty handed."

"He's still guilty of desecration of royal property."

"Someone else can deal with that."

"Mm."

"Stay awake."

Athos groaned but prized his eyelids open again. "I can try getting up."

"No!" Aramis pushed his good hand against Athos's chest to prevent any attempts at it. "I'm serious, my friend, I cannot take any of your weight right now."

Athos huffed and remained still.

Aramis began to nettle him with idle prattle to keep him awake and lucid, his own voice growing hoarse from talking. What he wouldn't give for some water. He wasn't sure how much time had passed before he heard movement outside and voices shouting their names.

"In here!" Aramis yelled, grimacing as it hurt his throat. "Athos." He gave his friend a light shake.

"I heard," Athos mumbled.

"Aramis!" Porthos's harried voice joined the mix, and Aramis looked over to see men entering the passage, musketeers led by Captain Treville.

"What the bloody hell happened?" Porthos exclaimed as he reached them, crouching down and looking them over urgently.

"The robber thought to blow up the tombs for their treasure," Aramis replied. Speaking finally triggered a coughing fit and he doubled over with a strangled sound of pain as it jolted his collar bone.

"Something broke in his shoulder," Athos was saying when the coughing subsided.

"Athos has a concussion," Aramis rejoined. "And we should be careful moving him until a physician can look him over. A litter would be best."

"We'll take care of it," Treville replied and signaled some of the other musketeers to see to it.

Porthos reached to unbuckle the first few clasps of Aramis's doublet, then gingerly took his injured arm and tucked it inside his coat. "That'll do fer now."

Aramis nodded in agreement, weariness turning his muscles sluggish. Porthos moved to help him stand but he shook his head, grimacing at the pain it caused. Porthos huffed in exasperation but seemed to understand, and they waited for the other musketeers to return with a stretcher to carry Athos out on. Only then did Aramis allow himself to be pulled to his feet, and together they shuffled their way out of the wreckage and into the sun.


	3. Delirium

3\. Delirium — Aramis

The infirmary smelled of cloying sickness and sweat. Porthos yearned to step outside for some fresh air, but he dare not leave Aramis's bedside, not while his friend was trapped in the throes of a fever that refused to relinquish its hold. Porthos was afraid that if he took his eyes off him, Aramis would have slipped away when he returned. Just like his mother, there one moment and gone the next.

He removed the warm cloth from Aramis's fevered brow and dunked it in the bucket of water by the bed. Then he wrung out the excess and folded it back over. Aramis shivered and moaned.

The door creaked open and Porthos glanced over his shoulder to see the captain had walked in. Treville paused, took in the situation, and then immediately went to a window.

"Captain?" Porthos queried, half in question half in protest. They were in the dead of winter and Porthos knew you weren't supposed to let in a chill when someone was ill.

"This room is stifling," Treville replied, unlatching a window and pushing it open. The burst of frigid air collided with warm like two fronts engaging in battle.

"But…if he gets cold…"

"His fever is still climbing?" the captain checked.

"Yes," Porthos confirmed grimly.

"Then cooling him down is more important right now."

Porthos looked away, his jaw ticking. Had he been making things worse? Aramis had been muttering that he was freezing and Porthos had piled on the blankets, trying to alleviate his suffering. Not even a full year after Savoy and Aramis could not bear the cold and he chilled far too easily.

Treville walked around to the other side of the sickbed and pulled two of those extra blankets away. Porthos's face burned with shame. He'd only been trying to help.

"He said he was cold…" he put out as a weak defense.

"From his perspective, he is," Treville replied. His expression softened. "Unfortunately, that is not something you can fix."

"He hates the cold," Porthos muttered.

At that, something haunted entered the captain's eyes and he lowered his gaze to the man in the bed. "You should go get some rest, Porthos," he said in a low voice.

Porthos shook his head fervently. "I'm good right here."

"I could make it an order."

He drew his shoulders back. "With all due respect, Captain, that's the one order I can't follow. I swore no one would ever leave him again."

Treville looked as though he'd been slapped, which gave Porthos pause as he went back over his declaration. He hadn't meant it as an accusation against anyone other than that traitorous bastard Marsac. And Aramis would never be left alone again because Porthos was always going to be there.

But he supposed the captain would bear some weight and guilt over the massacre at Savoy, having been the one to send them on that training exercise, just as Aramis carried the weight of being the only one to return. Neither he nor Aramis bore the blame for it though.

After a prolonged beat, Treville took a step back. "Keep his hands and feet warm but the rest of him as cool as possible. If you get cold, you should shut the window. Can't have you getting sick as well."

With that, he left.

Porthos bowed forward and rested his elbows on his thighs. He hadn't meant to offend the captain, and he hoped that wouldn't have severe repercussions for him later. But that was the least of his concerns. Aramis began to twitch in distress, tossing his head side to side. The cool cloth fell onto the pillow and Porthos picked it up to put it back on his brow. Aramis whimpered and tried to pull away.

"No."

"Shh," Porthos soothed. "I know yer cold, but yer fever's gotta come down."

"No, please," he rasped.

Porthos's heart fractured. He hated causing his friend pain, even if it was necessary to help him.

"Marsac, please."

Porthos stiffened. "Aramis, it's me, Porthos. I'm right here." He took one of his friend's hands and held tight. "Yer not alone."

Aramis shuddered and moaned, and his distress only increased. He rolled over and curled in on himself, his shivers so jolting they seemed like convulsions. At some point he switched to muttering in Spanish, accented words spilling breathlessly from his lips.

Porthos watched helplessly. "I don't know what yer sayin'," he pleaded.

The door grated open and Porthos turned his head, expression desperate. It was Athos, his boots and winter cloak mud splattered. Porthos could have sagged in relief. "When did you get back?"

"Just now." Athos crossed the room to stand over the bed, his brow furrowed. "The captain says he's not doing well."

Porthos's face scrunched up with anguish. "I don't know what to do."

Athos's gaze swept over the damp cloth, bucket of water, and blankets rucked up at the foot of the bed. "You're doing everything you can."

Porthos shook his head, his voice cracking, "It's not enough."

Aramis muttered something in Spanish again.

Athos placed a gloved hand on his brow and leaned over, whispering something in his ear.

Porthos straightened. "You know Spanish?"

"Only a few words. I think he was calling for a sister. I told him his brothers were here." Athos stepped away and removed his cloak and gloves, setting them on a nearby table. "When was the last time you rested?"

Porthos shook his head staunchly; he wasn't going to abide that conversation. "Could ask the same of you," he rejoined gruffly.

Athos canted his head in concession.

"C-cold," Aramis stuttered.

Porthos scooted closer and stroked the sweat-laden hair back. "I know, I'm sorry."

Aramis's eyes slitted open, the brown orbs glazed with fever. "_Please_."

Porthos threw a desperate look at Athos. He couldn't bear this.

Athos's mouth was pursed in a thin line. "Push one of the other beds over. Perhaps sharing body heat will help ease his discomfort without overheating him."

Porthos jumped to his feet to do that. He was willing to try anything at this point.

The wood legs squeaked across the floor as Porthos shoved it up next to Aramis's. Then he yanked off his boots and climbed onto the mattress, pulling Aramis toward him and circling him in his arms. The marksman was _radiating_ heat like he was his own furnace. Porthos couldn't understand why Aramis felt the exact opposite.

"It's Porthos," he repeated in his friend's ear. "I've got you."

Athos came to stand on the other side of the bed and adjusted the light blanket over Aramis so that his extremities were covered. He then fished out the damp cloth and rewet it before running it over Aramis's face. Aramis shuddered against Porthos's chest.

"You're gonna be okay," Porthos whispered, over and over again as he clung to his friend. "You're gonna be okay."

The bonding Inseparables wouldn't settle for anything less.


	4. Human Shield

4\. Human Shield — Aramis

Aramis still wasn't used to it, being the one escorted by a contingent of guards whose duty was to protect him as much as young King Louis and his mother the Regent of France when they all attended Mass at Norte Dame for Easter Sunday. His gaze kept sweeping the crowd with a soldier's keen eye for trouble and not as a benevolent First Minister. Aramis may have always had a penchant for suave flair, but not to such a large audience and not because of pomp and circumstance. He still felt ill-fitted in the extravagant garments that came with the position. A soldier playing at politics indeed.

He wished Treville was in his place. Strange that when he'd first become a musketeer he'd striven to emulate his captain, and all these years later he was once again following in the man's footsteps.

But Aramis would always be a musketeer.

He was alert as the royal party left the church. When a disturbance of some kind broke out a ways down the street, his gaze snapped toward it, along with the urge to move forward and investigate. But that was for the guards to see to. Aramis caught himself and hung back, his sharp gaze never ceasing to survey his surroundings. Almost everyone's attention was directed toward the indistinct shouts down the street.

Almost everyone.

Aramis paused, gaze fixing on a man in the crowd who was not looking over his shoulder curiously but staring straight ahead at the royal family. At Louis. His hand moved from beneath his cloak and Aramis saw the butt of a pistol grip.

With no pistols of his own to draw and shoot first, Aramis did the only thing an unarmed musketeer could: he surged forward, throwing himself in front of the King. In front of his son. He heard the pistol shot and the resulting screams, but a split second later it was all whited out in blinding pain that pierced his chest and stole his ability to breathe.

He hit the ground hard and thought pain might have shot through his elbow but it was all inconsequential compared to the fire in his chest. His mouth gaped open, trying to desperately suck in air but none came. He tried to turn his head, to search frantically for his son to make sure he was all right. He caught a glimpse of Louis and Anne being ushered back inside the church by the guards before several pairs of boots blocked his view as more guards surrounded him. Ironic, really. Aramis almost wanted to laugh.

But the garbled sound that came from his throat was anything but humorous. Someone bent down and pressed a gloved hand against his chest, hard, and he nearly blacked out from the jolt of agony.

"Clear the street, now!"

Unconsciousness would be merciful—assuming it wasn't permanent—but Aramis couldn't give in just yet.

"Did," he gasped out, body jerking with the effort. "Get…?"

"We got the shooter," the guard trying to staunch the bleeding confirmed. "Hang in there, Minister."

Minister…Aramis did laugh then, and it sent fire spearing through his chest and devouring all his other senses. He vaguely registered hands lifting him up and setting him down again, then the sensation of being raised again though this time his whole body uniformly and something like canvas stretched taut dipped slightly beneath him.

The rushed journey through the streets of Paris was a blur but he kept looking for the archway of the garrison to know when it was over.

"Aramis!"

He blinked through watery vision as d'Artagnan appeared above him, keeping a harried pace beside the stretcher. Aramis smiled fondly at the hat he now always wore. Captain of the Musketeers. The garrison must be close.

But he wasn't being taken to the garrison, of course. Aramis heard shouts and the creak of a gate and the wide open skies that could only be seen on the palace grounds swirled above him. Dear Lord, how much further? His chest hitched with each shallow breath he somehow managed to take but it didn't feel like enough. His lungs were too tight, burning…

"D-," he tried, flailing a hand weakly.

D'Artagnan caught it and squeezed. "Hang in there, Aramis. You're gonna be fine. Just hang on."

He wanted to, but the pain was too much. When they finally reached their destination and multiple hands transferred him from the stretcher to a table with a heavy thud, the resulting explosion of pain dislodged his precarious hold on both consciousness and breathing and darkness took him.

o.0.o

Aramis woke feeling like he'd been trampled by half a dozen horses. He lay still for a long time, cataloguing his hurts. The locus of pain was in his chest and pulsed with each inhalation, despite how slowly and shallowly he was trying to breathe. Without opening his eyes, he shifted his right hand, trying to walk his fingers closer toward his torso and then up his side, feeling the linen bandages wrapped securely around his chest.

"Aramis?" a voice called in surprise or alarm, he couldn't tell which. A gentle hand settled on his brow. "Can you hear me?"

"Constance?" he murmured.

"That's right."

Another hand, larger than the first, took his wandering hand. "Open your eyes, Aramis." D'Artagnan.

He prized them open with effort and squinted in discomfort. The concerned expressions of his two friends came into view above him.

Constance smiled. "That's it. Just breathe slowly."

"Tr-trying."

"The musket ball hit your rib, broke it," d'Artagnan explained. "It's a miracle it stopped there; otherwise you'd be dead."

Aramis didn't feel that far off from "dead" but didn't say so. "Lou- the King?"

The d'Artagnans looked at him in understanding.

"You saved him," Constance answered. "He's been upset about you though. Her Majesty didn't think it advisable to let him see you until you'd woken up. He's been rather discontent over it, arguing that as King he can do whatever he wants."

Aramis's lips quirked at that. "No, she's right." He tested shifting his legs and grimaced, the small movement somehow vibrating up into his torso. "Don't want…him to…see me like this," he said breathlessly.

"Agreed," Constance said, her nimble fingers stroking back his hair. "You need more rest."

Aramis's eyelids began to fall under the calming sensation, but he forced them back open. "The threat?"

"In the Bastille. As far as we can tell, he acted alone," d'Artagnan replied.

"There was a distraction."

"He put a crate of snakes and a small tripwire down the street. When someone tripped and knocked it over, people started screaming."

"Oh." He let his eyelids finally close again.

"Also, while we all appreciate you saving the King's life," d'Artagnan added, "leave the jumping in front of musket balls to the professionals."

"'M a musketeer," he mumbled.

D'Artagnan squeezed his hand. "I know. But you're also First Minister now."

"Mm."

And a father.

And in all those roles, Aramis would always step in front of anything to shield his son from harm.


	5. Gunpoint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who commented! :D I'm glad you're enjoying these.

5\. Gunpoint — Athos and Aramis

Tavern brawls weren't an unusual occurrence, though they were usually preceded by a perceived insult, such as Porthos's cheating or even something as trivial as a bump. These six men stormed right in, scanned the room, and then immediately accosted the musketeers who had been minding their own business. Athos was only halfway into his first bottle and so drew his sword quickly. Aramis and d'Artagnan were also swiftly on their feet. Porthos had been across the room at a card game, but the instigation of violence seemed to be an invitation to other patrons, who blocked the large musketeer from joining the others.

Unfortunately, sword fighting in close quarters was not the best situation, and Athos found himself cramped between two tables, trying to meet his opponent's blade while not tripping over the furniture. The man grabbed the bottle of wine off the table and threw it at Athos's head. He barely ducked in time to avoid getting clobbered, and the glass shattered behind him, splattering dark red liquid across the wall.

"I wasn't finished drinking that," he said, voice tightly controlled.

The man merely scowled and lunged. Athos parried the attack and slashed his sword across his assailant's chest. He danced aside as the body dropped, failing to see the second man coming up behind him and hooking an arm around his neck. Athos fumbled around for his parrying dagger as he was dragged backward across the room. When he finally grasped the hilt, he drew the blade and stabbed it into the brute's thigh. The man howled and released him. Athos followed through with a slice across his shoulder.

He whirled to find who was next and saw Aramis get slammed into a support beam, his head cracking against the wood with enough force that he instantly crumpled. Porthos let out a raging bellow and plowed through a bunch of men to get to him. Athos and d'Artagnan closed ranks as well.

"Enough!" a voice boomed, and the commotion hushed in surprise. The two of the original instigators still standing backed up in deference to the gentleman standing at the door with a pistol in hand and raised. "Which one of you is Aramis?"

Athos saw Porthos and d'Artagnan exchange a look while carefully not looking at the man unconscious behind them.

"Face me like a man, you swine!" the newcomer shouted, waving his gun.

"What do you want wit' him?" Porthos asked gruffly.

That pistol swung his direction. "I will have satisfaction for what he did with my wife."

Porthos and d'Artagnan shared a look again, this time tinged with exasperation. And in the past, they would have been right, but Athos happened to know that ever since the Queen, Aramis had cut back on his…indulgences. More often than not he found whatever corner Athos had sequestered himself in and joined him in silent brooding.

"Will you hide behind your friends like a coward?" the cuckold seethed. "Maybe I should shoot you all."

At that, the two men who were apparently the advance party swapped out their blades for pistols as well, aiming at the musketeers and sweeping the barrels around at the remaining patrons. Some of them were nervously casting glances at Aramis, so before anyone could blurt it out, Athos stepped forward.

"I'm Aramis."

D'Artagnan's brows shot upward under his hair and Porthos shifted beside him.

The wronged husband pointed his gun at Athos's chest. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

"Only that you've mistaken me for someone else. I am not having an affair with your wife."

"Don't deny it!" he yelled, snapping the pistol like a whip. "Your reputation is well known."

Athos narrowed his eyes. "Is that what you base your accusation on? You didn't know me when you came in here, so you haven't actually seen me with your wife."

The man took an enraged step forward. "I know she's having an affair!"

"I've no doubt she is, but it isn't with a man named Aramis." Athos flicked a glance at the lackeys. "An attack on the King's Musketeers bears the penalty of execution. Are you sure you gentlemen want to continue?"

Those two exchanged a hesitant look, then started backing toward the door.

"Why you—" the cuckold snarled and straightened his aim.

Athos moved just as the report sounded, and searing fire streaked across his arm. He whipped his pistol out with his other and pulled the trigger, shooting the husband in the chest. May his now widow and her lover find happiness.

There was a stunned silence in the tavern before people started making a hasty retreat. Athos clipped his gun back to his belt and reached for his burning arm that was oozing blood over the jagged rip in the sleeve.

"Were you hit?" d'Artagnan exclaimed, rushing over to see.

"Just a graze."

D'Artagnan hissed in sympathy as he looked. "It'll need stitches."

And Athos one bottle short for the night. "Aramis?"

"Coming around."

They went to stand over their friend as Porthos coaxed him back to consciousness.

Blinking blearily, Aramis reached up to touch the back of his head and winced. Then he looked around at the damage. "Seems I missed the rest of the fun."

Porthos snorted. "No kiddin'. An' seein' as how it was about you."

Aramis squinted at him. "What?"

"A cuckold and some hired goons were lookin' to settle a score wit' the man havin' an affair wit' his wife." Porthos shook his head with a chuff. "Athos stepped in, claimin' to be you, an' tried ta convince the husband he had the wrong lothario!"

Aramis turned his head to Athos and squinted up at him in confusion. "You what?"

Athos shrugged. "You were indisposed."

"And you got shot," d'Artagnan put in. "We should get you both back to the garrison."

"He shot you?" Aramis started to scramble to his feet, with Porthos's help.

"Shot at me. And mostly missed."

Aramis snagged Athos's sleeve, eyes wide in a way that the swordsman couldn't tell was from shock or a concussion. "Wh-why would you do that?"

"Because I knew you weren't guilty in this instance." Athos gave him a pointed look.

"Wait, really?" Porthos asked in disbelief. "I thought you were jus' tryin' to trick the man, pointin' out he didn't actually see his wife's lover."

Aramis was staring at Athos with a mixture of expressions from stunned to consternation to guilty.

"If you'd been fully present, you would have told him the same thing," Athos pointed out.

Aramis shook his head, eyes crinkling from the pain it caused. "You shouldn't do that," he said in a low voice, and there was a heavier meaning there that only the two of them understood.

Athos gripped his elbow firmly. "What was the alternative, to hand you over?"

Porthos scoffed. "Never."

Athos arched a brow at Aramis, trying to pierce the veil of confusion circling from the head injury and convey his own hidden message.

Thy friends do stand beside thee.


	6. Dragged Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the continued comments! They make me very happy. ^_^

6\. Dragged Away — d'Artagnan and Aramis

D'Artagnan watched Aramis pace the length of their cell, back and forth, back and forth. They hadn't even been in there for two hours and already the marksman couldn't sit still. His propensity to bore easily had been amusing when it only threatened local wildlife, but d'Artagnan was getting anxious just watching him, the wearing tracks in the floor making it feel like the walls were growing smaller.

"What do you think they'll do with us?" he asked, trying to distract his friend.

Aramis simply shrugged as he pivoted and walked back the other direction. "These brigands have been unnecessarily violent in their attacks. I imagine there are any number of things they would come up with."

A muscle in d'Artagnan's jaw ticked. That had not been the answer he was expecting—or looking for. But there was no reason to downplay their situation. They'd been tracking a gang of robbers wreaking havoc in this area, only for the two musketeers to accidentally stumble upon them when taking the horses to water. Which meant that the highwaymen had all four steeds and Athos and Porthos, left behind at where they'd made camp, were at a severe disadvantage when it came to mounting a rescue.

The bandits had brought their captives to the nearby ruins of a castle and locked them up, then left. But d'Artagnan could hear echoes of what sounded like revelry out in the courtyard. Either the ruffians would celebrate the night away, or work themselves up to a more…_festive_ kind of mood.

Footsteps outside the cell made d'Artagnan's heart sink. He scrambled to his feet as the door swung open with a bang and four men sauntered in.

"So," one of them started, "Musketeers sent to take issue with our affairs?"

"If by affairs you mean robbing and murdering people, then yes," Aramis replied glibly.

The bandit sneered. "Not doin' such a good job, are you?"

Aramis canted his head with a shrug.

"Seems we oughtta teach you a lesson," the brigand went on.

The men crowded into the cell with eager grins. D'Artagnan spread his feet into a ready position. When two lunged at him, he ducked the first swing and followed up with one of his own. But one against two meant several hits landed to his ribs and jaw. He grunted and fought back with all the dirty tricks Porthos had taught him.

Someone cursed him, and then more men were rushing into the cell and his arms were seized and wrenched behind his back. Unable to defend himself, he took several swift punches to his stomach that left him doubled over and dry heaving. He saw feet scuffling across the floor as Aramis fought against his assailants. One of them, the leader maybe, took a knee between the legs before Aramis was finally subdued.

D'Artagnan lifted himself partially to find the leader of the highwaymen bowed in half, face red and splotchy as he seethed at Aramis. Snickers sounded from some of the other bandits, which only enraged the man further. He straightened abruptly and struck out with a punch that snapped Aramis's head back, and the musketeer immediately went limp in the arms restraining him.

The lead brigand jerked his head toward the door and his men began dragging Aramis out.

D'Artagnan strained against the men still holding him but only received another punch to the gut that left him winded as he was unceremoniously dropped on the floor. The men filed out, slamming the door behind them and sliding the bolt into place.

Wheezing, d'Artagnan struggled to sit up and staggered to the door, peering out through the slits as Aramis was dragged down the passage and out of sight. "Hey!" he shouted. But the men had gone, leaving him alone.

D'Artagnan slammed his fist against the door.

Then he began to pace, back and forth along the edges of the cell, that nervous energy bubbling up again but refusing to be released, not until he knew where they'd taken Aramis.

It felt like an eternity before the leader of the highwaymen returned, a sadistic smile on his lips.

"Where is he?" d'Artagnan demanded.

The man smirked. "You'll never see him again. Which now makes you our primary source of entertainment."

D'Artagnan's heart dropped into his stomach, not just for himself, but for his friend. "You'll pay for this," he said in a low voice steeped in the promise of retribution.

The brigand's mouth curved upward. "No, you will."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued in tomorrow's prompt.


	7. Isolation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliffhanger yesterday! It's the only mean one for the month.

7\. Isolation — Aramis

There was no sense of time in the pitch darkness. Minutes stretched for hours; hours could have stretched for days. Eternity expanded into the abyss, an endless, smothering blackness that made the air feel too close and pressed upon Aramis's chest like a vise. He felt the cold stone beneath him, heard the clink of the chain that bolted his arms and legs to the floor in the middle of the oubliette. But that was the extent of what he could sense. Silence had never been so deafening.

He'd prayed aloud when he'd first been locked in here, let his words bounce off invisible walls to pretend he wasn't utterly alone. But then his voice grew hoarse and his prayers slipped into soundless litanies spilling from silently moving lips. A chill hooked frigid barbs into the flesh under his thin shirt and burrowed into his marrow.

How long had it been? Only a day? A few? Longer? Thirst made him swallow convulsively but he hadn't been struck with hunger pains as of yet. He didn't know whether hunger would even be able to breach the shroud of shuddering misery that lay heavy upon him. Like the veil placed over a corpse before burial.

His breathing hitched. He wondered whether insanity might claim him before his physical body broke down.

He didn't know which would be worse.

Soft sounds snuffled in the dark, like the skittering of tiny feet. Rats, most likely. Aramis shifted, craning his head back and forth as he tried to pinpoint the sources. A new horror entered his mind as he imagined being eaten alive, unable to fight back against what he couldn't see.

His heart thumped wildly against his rib cage and he closed his eyes, but the darkness within was as terrifying as the darkness without. It was a living entity at this point, writhing and undulating with burbling susurrations.

A thump reverberated up above, followed by other dull stomps. Then there was a creak and groan and light lanced through the hatch in the ceiling with blinding intensity. Aramis squinted against the harshness.

A shadow filled the bulk of the gap but the illumination was still too bright. "Aramis!"

"D'Artagnan?" he breathed, angling his head toward the surface of the sun as a backlit figure climbed down the rope ladder Aramis hadn't even known was there. His eyes stung from the light.

D'Artagnan jumped down the last few feet, bending his knees to absorb the impact. He winced at the landing and wrapped an arm around his abdomen as he scrambled to Aramis's side. "You're alive! I thought…they said…" The young Gascon gave himself a sharp shake and gripped Aramis's shoulders fervently.

"I'm alive," he whispered, only slightly certain of it though. His vision was blurry with pinprick tears and everything still seemed distorted.

D'Artagnan grabbed one of the chains and gave it a tug. "I need a key!" he shouted up at someone.

Aramis swallowed around a dry throat. "How- how long?"

D'Artagnan's expression was grim. "Almost two days. Athos and Porthos arrived with a rescue party a couple of hours ago. It took that long to convince one of the men to tell us what they'd done with you."

Aramis rolled the information over in his mind. Somehow time still held no meaning in relation to what he'd experienced down here.

The ladder jostled as someone else began to climb down. Porthos.

"Here," the larger musketeer said, holding up the key to the manacles. His face was set in stone as his gaze raked over Aramis's supine form, the chains too short to allow him to sit up. The marksman shifted in discomfort.

But once he started moving he couldn't stop, too eager to be free of the chains and free of this place. He fidgeted and twitched impatiently as Porthos set the key to the lock. The moment they were loose, Aramis bolted upright and scrambled toward the ladder. His vision swam and he tripped, but two sets of hands quickly caught him.

"Whoa, easy there," Porthos cautioned. "Think you'll be able to climb?"

"Yes," he ground out because he was not spending another second in here.

Flailing to grasp the nearest ladder rung, he began to pull himself up. His hold was shaky and Porthos kept a firm hand on his backside the entire way up, but Aramis was too desperate to care for embarrassment.

Athos was at the top and reached in to help haul him out the rest of the way. Aramis stumbled shakily into his arms. Now that he was out of the oubliette, he found himself clutching at the feel of another person beside him.

"Sorry," he muttered, knowing how uncomfortable this must be making his friend. "I need a moment."

"Take a few," Athos replied softly, not moving.

He heard Porthos and d'Artagnan climb out of the pit and Aramis fought to gain control quickly now that he had an audience. Thoughts of d'Artagnan helped snap him out of it and he turned abruptly to take in the young Gascon's condition. He bore layer upon layer of more bruises and abrasions since the two of them had been separated.

D'Artagnan gave him a small, understanding smile. "I'm fine. Nothing that won't heal in a week." Something haunted filled his eyes and he stepped forward to pull Aramis into an embrace. "I'm glad you're not dead."

Aramis squeezed back and breathed in the contact. "Me too."


	8. Stab Wound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I'm finally whumping someone else! XD

8\. Stab Wound — Athos

Athos's knee buckled under his weight for the third time, demanding he stop this pathetic version of running. Porthos merely hiked Athos's arm higher over his shoulder and half carried, half dragged him down an alley and ducked into a shadowed alcove. There were clomping boots up the street, some disgruntled voices, and then silence.

"I think we lost 'em," Porthos whispered.

Athos pressed a shaky hand to his hip and winced at the flare of pain. Wet tackiness coated his fingers. While he occasionally appreciated a good tavern brawl, tonight was not one of those times. He had been too far into his cups when the fight broke out—at Porthos's table with the card game—and therefore wasn't in the best shape when someone decided to add a dagger to the mix.

Athos's sword hilt had gotten tangled in his coat and so he had foolishly tried to duel with a fork instead—he remembered Porthos doing that once—but it hadn't worked out so well for him in this situation.

The drawing of first blood had changed things drastically. Porthos had gone from enjoying the fight to bellowing like an enraged bull and throwing an entire table at a handful of attackers. Then he'd grabbed Athos and made a hasty retreat out of there.

"How bad is it?" Porthos asked, probing at the stab wound in the dark.

Athos hissed sharply and slapped his hand away. "Don't touch it."

"Yer still bleedin'."

"I'm aware."

"Aramis is goin' to give ya an earful."

"You're the one who started the brawl." Athos regretted the rejoinder when Porthos's face immediately fell with guilt and self-recrimination.

"Come on, it should be clear now. I gotta get you back to the garrison."

Porthos grabbed Athos's arm and hauled him up again. Athos tried to bite back a groan as he automatically tried to support his own weight.

"Can you keep pressure on that?" Porthos asked worriedly.

Athos grunted an affirmative and pressed his hand to the wound again.

Porthos slipped an arm around the back of his waist, only to freeze and crane his neck around. "Hang on…damn it, there're two holes."

Well, this night just kept getting better.

Porthos clamped a hand over the exit wound with one hand while slinging Athos's arm over his shoulder with the other. Then they resumed their hobbling journey toward the garrison. Athos tried to keep an ear out for their pursuers, but he really was quite drunk and the adrenaline of the fight had been waning.

"'M sorry," Porthos mumbled contritely.

"It wasn't your fault," Athos replied.

"I was cheatin'," he confessed.

Athos rolled his eyes in fond exasperation, though his friend couldn't see in the dark. "The man who stabbed me wasn't even part of your card game. Just an opportunist with no regard for the laws of chivalry."

Porthos was quiet for a moment, just the heavy shuffling of their boots across the dirt and heavy breathing to fill the silence.

"Reckon the captain might not see it that way."

Athos would have shrugged if he could; there was that.

They reached the garrison and the night watchman rushed to fetch Aramis, assuming he was in his own bed this night. A surgeon would not appreciate being woken at this late hour.

Though neither was Aramis, who had in fact been in his room, nor the captain, who stormed into the infirmary a few minutes behind their resident medic.

"What happened?" Treville demanded.

Porthos shifted his weight awkwardly. "A disagreement at a tavern."

"To be fair," Athos put in between pained gasps as Aramis inspected the wound, "the one who stabbed me wasn't part of the original disagreement."

Aramis tutted over the damage and began undoing the clasps of Athos's coat and trousers. "Neither of you can go anywhere without me, can you?"

Athos scoffed. "Yes, because you're immune to jealous husbands finding you in a tavern and airing their grievances." He choked on a strangled yelp as Aramis yanked his pants down from his hip.

Treville placed a hand over his eyes in despair of them. "Do I need to send for a surgeon?"

"I can manage," Aramis replied, fingers palpating around the two puncture wounds. "The blade went through muscle, nothing vital. But you will be off your feet for several days," he addressed to Athos.

He thunked his head back against the wall behind him. Wonderful.

"I'm sure Porthos will get you anything you need," Treville said. "He'll be close by—on stable duty."

Said musketeer grimaced.

The captain left them to clean up this mess on their own. Or, Aramis, really, since he was the one doing the cleaning and sewing.

Porthos scuffed the toe of his boot against the floor as he watched. "Trade places with ya?" he spoke up after a few minutes.

Athos and Aramis merely stared at him. Then Athos dropped his head back again with a lamenting sigh.

"Bring me more wine."


	9. Shackled

9\. Shackled — Porthos and d'Artagnan

Porthos scowled as d'Artagnan tripped and almost took him down too. "Watch where yer goin'!"

"The underbrush is thick here; what do you expect me to do?" came the snappish retort.

The five feet of chain between them clanked against itself as they came to a stop in the woods. Porthos lifted his right arm with the heavy manacle and gave it a frustrated shake.

"Stop it," d'Artagnan groused as the movement tugged the chain and jostled his right arm where the other cuff was attached.

"I'm tryin' to think of a way out of this."

"Maybe you shouldn't have lost the lock picks."

"Maybe you shouldn' have bumped me!"

"We were about to be caught!"

Porthos growled low in his throat and turned away to scan the forest. The mercenaries would be looking for them after their escape and at the moment they were lost, shackled together, and unarmed.

D'Artagnan took a few steps to the left, drawing Porthos's arm across his body. Porthos yanked it back, earning a dark glower as it wrenched the boy's shoulder.

D'Artagnan exhaled sharply through his nose. "Would you stop that?"

"Stop twisting me around."

"_I've_ been twisted around this whole time." D'Artagnan gave the chain a petulant jerk.

Porthos took a seething step toward him but was brought up short by a pistol shot cracking the air and a nearby tree exploding into splinters. Argument forgotten, both musketeers resumed their mad dash through the woods.

After he thought he'd put enough distance between them and their pursuers, Porthos ducked behind a large tree, dragging d'Artagnan with him with such abrupt force that the boy had to catch his balance on the trunk.

"This ain't workin'. We're jus' gonna get even more lost."

"So, what? You want to just stand around and wait for them to catch up to us again? That's brilliant."

Porthos narrowed his eyes. "Or we fight back."

D'Artagnan raised his arm and jangled the chain. "Yeah, good plan."

"At least I'm botherin' to come up with one."

"Who got us out in the first place?"

Porthos was seriously thinking about decking the little twat when he caught sight of movement several paces beyond d'Artagnan. He gripped the chain with both hands and pulled roughly, yanking d'Artagnan off his feet just as a musket ball whizzed through the space where he'd been standing. He went sprawling on the ground with a yelp and the mercenary drew his sword to charge.

Porthos instinctively moved to duck under the arc of the swinging blade, but his arm snapped taut as the chain did, anchored to d'Artagnan on the ground. He missed the blow but pitched sideways, unable to keep his balance.

Their assailant pivoted and slashed his sword again. D'Artagnan scrambled out of the way, the chain of their shackles catching the man around the ankles and tripping him. Porthos narrowly avoided a close shave but the hefty man landed on his torso with an oomph.

Grimacing from the bruises, Porthos tried to roll out from under him one way—which happened to be the opposite direction d'Artagnan was going. They both got pulled back and tripped over the mercenary, who was flailing to get back up himself. D'Artagnan finally snatched the man's sword away from him and swiftly ran him through.

"There, that wasn't so hard," he said breathlessly.

Porthos glowered. "My idea."

"Whatever."

They had to roll the body off the chain to free themselves and then Porthos relieved the dead man of his daggers. He felt better being armed, though he'd feel a whole lot better not being chained to the impertinent young Gascon anymore.

"Let's keep movin'," Porthos said.

D'Artagnan rolled his eyes.

Yet before they could pick a direction and set off, a group of men appeared through the trees, charging right for them.

Porthos sagged in resignation and cursed under his breath.

D'Artagnan bent down and picked up a stout oak branch with a thinner branch protruding from the side. He shoved it into Porthos's shackled hand. "Here, use this as a shield," he said, spinning around so that his arms had range of movement and Porthos's was stretched across his chest. But with the log in his right hand and dagger in his left, he at least had some protection. And brute force. Which left the sword work to d'Artagnan.

Porthos gritted his teeth and braced himself for the onslaught. D'Artagnan had switched his sword to his left hand—not his strongest but he was like Athos and had enough dexterity with both. He slashed and parried at the first man to reach him. Porthos threw his log up to catch the blade of his opponent, then body slammed him, throwing him back on the ground. The next attacker whose sword he caught got nocked in the gnarled bark and Porthos took the split second of surprise to slash his throat with the dagger.

Every few steps he'd feel the chain tug taut, but then he and d'Artagnan would instantly close back in toward each other, fighting more or less back-to-back. Four men lay at their feet and they had to backpedal to clearer ground to take on the remaining three.

Porthos caught one in the chest with his wooden shield, which was beginning to fracture under the strain, and slammed him into a tree so hard his head cracked against the trunk. He slumped to the ground. Porthos blocked another blow that finally shattered his makeshift shield. D'Artagnan glanced back at him at the sound, and somehow in that moment they read each other seamlessly. Grabbing the chain from their respective ends, they charged at the last two men, catching them in the stomachs and flipping them over onto the ground. Then they spun back and finished them off.

Porthos whipped his gaze around in search of more, but the woods had fallen silent again, giving them yet another reprieve.

D'Artagnan sagged against a tree trunk, breathing heavily.

A twig snapped and they both whirled toward it, only to find Athos and Aramis jogging toward them.

"Oh sure, now you two show up," Porthos grumbled.

"We were coming to your aid," Aramis replied. "But you seemed to have it all well in hand." He swept his gaze around the scene.

"Please tell me you have a key or lock pick," d'Artagnan pleaded.

"Back at camp," Athos said.

Aramis arched a brow at Porthos. "What happened to yours?"

"We had to make a rather hasty escape," d'Artagnan answered first. "And it was dark."

"Besides," Porthos added, lifting his shackled arm. "It came in handy."

D'Artagnan grinned.

Aramis's lips quirked. "I can see that."

"But we're ready for some time apart."

"Definitely."

Aramis and Athos exchanged amused grins.


	10. Unconscious

10\. Unconscious — Aramis

Water dribbled over the rim of Athos's hat in steady rivulets as he stood in the rain, eyes peeled against the grey hue of the forest. Leaves hung limply under the pattering drops, spilling them down in mini waterfalls to soak the earth and collect in standing pools. The gentle drumming thrummed like a solemn dirge, perhaps tranquil at any other time and if one was indoors, safe, dry, and secure.

Athos glanced behind him at the small nook hollowed out under a scarp where his charge was tucked against the rock and out of the rain for the moment. Aramis's head hung down to his chest, his damp curls plastered around his face, slack in unconsciousness.

A twig snapped and Athos whipped his pistol up toward it.

D'Artagnan had stepped into view but now abruptly stopped and threw his arms up. "Easy, it's just me."

Athos lowered his weapon.

"There's no sign of them," the young Gascon reported as he made his way over.

Athos nodded, not that he would relax his guard. Their pursuers had been persistent thus far. Maybe the four musketeers had finally managed to lose them in the woods, but with their pace hampered by their wounded brother and the loss of their horses, their foes could certainly catch up again.

"How is he?" d'Artagnan asked, moving to crouch next to Aramis.

"No change."

He'd taken a hard blow from a charging horse in the attack and had yet to wake up. The longer he was out, the more the others worried.

A whistle like a birdsong flitted among the trees. D'Artagnan straightened with a frown.

"It's Porthos," Athos said.

A moment later, their fourth slipped around the edge of the escarpment.

"I found a cave," Porthos said. "Good cover, and we can at least get outta this rain."

Athos gave a quick nod of assent. Porthos went over to Aramis and pulled the injured marksman up and over his shoulder. Then he led the way through the forest to the base of a rocky slope where he'd found them shelter.

The cave wasn't very deep but it was tall enough for them to stand up in comfortably. Porthos laid Aramis down gently, mindful of the knot on the back of his head. Athos surveyed their position, then drew his sword and hacked away some branches from a nearby bush, which he then dragged in front of the cave opening to conceal it further.

"We need to get 'im warm," Porthos muttered as he tugged at Aramis's belt to get it off.

"There's some dried grass and twigs in here," d'Artagnan said, scanning the ground. "We can probably risk a fire—the rain will keep the smoke down."

"Use what you can," Athos said. They all needed to get dry and warmed up.

While d'Artagnan gathered kindling, Athos helped Porthos to wrestle Aramis out of his soaked doublet and trousers. Twenty minutes later, a small fire was crackling in the cave and they were all down to their smallclothes. The rain continued to patter softly outside. None of them said anything, weariness and concern casting a somber pall over their moods. Porthos sat next to Aramis, the marksman's head in his lap. The orange light from the fire a few feet away added false color to his pallor.

"I could go for help," d'Artagnan suggested.

"No splitting up," Porthos immediately vetoed.

Athos, however, had to consider the merits of that idea. "We'll wait and see if the rain lets up in another hour," he compromised.

It didn't.

"If I leave now, I can make it to Paris before dark."

"Not on foot," Porthos argued.

"There are villages between there and here. I'll get a horse."

"If someone's feelin' generous."

D'Artagnan huffed and crossed his arms.

"He should go," Athos put in quietly, earning a baleful glare. Athos merely arched a pointed brow and flicked his gaze to Aramis.

Porthos's jaw ticked.

D'Artagnan's expression softened with understanding. "If they are still out there, I have a better chance of evading them on my own. The rain will help."

"You'll leave tracks."

"I know how to avoid that."

D'Artagnan looked to Athos, who nodded. The debate was over. D'Artagnan redressed in his trousers and coat and slipped out into the rain.

The cave was silent once more. Porthos brooded and Athos kept one ear on the mouth of the cave, listening for sounds of approach. But it was just rain and the snap and pop of the fire.

A soft groan broke the monotony. Porthos instantly leaned over Aramis, a hand on the man's brow as his face scrunched up in pain. Athos scooted closer.

"Aramis?" Porthos called softly.

He let out another moan. "I feel like I tried to outdrink Athos," he murmured.

Porthos's face cracked into a grin. "No one can outdrink Athos."

"Can you open your eyes?" Athos asked.

Aramis tried to do so but quickly closed them again. "Mmph my _head_…"

"Are you going to be sick?" Athos watched him carefully until Aramis mumbled no.

"What happened?"

"You took a nasty blow," Athos answered. "You've been out for hours."

"We were worried," Porthos added.

"S'rry," Aramis slurred. He tried to open his eyes again and look around. "Where—"

"We've taken shelter in a cave," Athos explained. "It's still raining. D'Artagnan's gone for help."

"Okay." Aramis's eyes fell shut again. "Mind if I sleep until he…gets back?"

Athos gave him a soft smile though it was lost on the man. "Not at all. We will be waking you again every hour though."

"Mhm."

Athos sat back, some of the tension finally loosing from his shoulders.

And when d'Artagnan returned earlier than expected with reinforcements, he could finally let himself relax in the confirmation that they'd all be okay.


	11. Stitches

11\. Stitches — Porthos

D'Artagnan took a breath as he threaded the needle. He could do this. He'd seen Aramis do it; he knew the general principle of inserting the needle through flesh and tucking it in the other side, then pulling the frayed ends closed. It wasn't all that different from mending a shirt, and he knew how to do that. And this particular gash wasn't too messy, just a straightforward slash across the thigh. It hadn't even bled that badly. It just needed to be stitched so that it didn't split further and _then_ bleed heavily.

D'Artagnan looked up to meet Porthos's eye. "Ready?"

Sitting up in the bed, Porthos had his back against the wall and his leg outstretched as comfortably as possible. And yet he was regarding d'Artagnan with an almost feral gleam in his eyes, every muscle in his body held as taut as a bowstring.

D'Artagnan hesitated. "Porthos?"

The man grunted, though whether that was supposed to be an affirmation or not, d'Artagnan couldn't tell. He couldn't leave the wound untended though. It was another day's ride to Paris and the two of them had important missives to deliver.

"I'm going to start stitching it now," d'Artagnan warned.

Porthos didn't say anything, but his narrowed eyes tracked d'Artagnan like a hawk as he scooted closer to the bed and bent over the exposed leg. He was just about to poke the needle in when Porthos flinched violently, startling d'Artagnan into jerking back.

"What?" he asked in alarm. "Is the pain worse?"

Porthos shifted. "No. Jus' don' like needles."

D'Artagnan held back a sigh. "Pretty sure no one does. Just hold still and I'll go as quickly as I can."

He leaned forward again, using his left hand to clamp down on the leg when it twitched again. He poked the needle into tender flesh, feeling Porthos go rigid under his touch. D'Artagnan sympathized. He'd had to be sewn up before, and while it was unpleasant certainly, it was usually bearable.

But he'd barely put the second stitch in when Porthos yanked his leg up, ripping the needle right out of d'Artagnan's hand.

"Porthos!"

His friend glowered at him. "I can't help it," he practically growled.

"You're going to make it worse if you don't hold still!"

D'Artagnan had to take a moment to calm his breathing so he could remain the level-headed of the two of them. Jeez.

Porthos slowly straightened his leg out again and d'Artagnan checked to see if he'd done any further damage, but thankfully the wound didn't seem to have torn and the needle was still dangling from the thread. D'Artagnan picked it up again, paused, and then stood up so he could sit on Porthos's lower leg.

"Just breathe through it," he said before resuming his task.

One more stitch and Porthos's leg started bucking beneath him. D'Artagnan shot him an exasperated scowl, only to be _snarled_ at.

"Can't you hurry it up?" Porthos gritted out.

D'Artagnan gaped at him. "Not with you jerking about every time the needle moves!"

"How about we leave it? I'm sure it'll be fine, jus' wrap it tightly."

D'Artagnan clamped his mouth shut before he could respond snappishly to that. He'd thought a mission alone with Porthos would be fun—and it had been—until the bandits and this injury and the infuriating task of trying to patch it up. D'Artagnan was beginning to understand why Athos always punched Porthos out.

He exhaled sharply through his nose. Somehow he didn't think trying to punch the wounded bear of a musketeer would turn out well for him.

"Porthos, please, just bear with it and it'll be over before you know it."

"I can't help it," he reiterated. "It's not natural, that feelin' of the thread tuggin' at me."

D'Artagnan sighed, then straightened. Okay, new plan. If he couldn't knock Porthos out with his fist, maybe he could do it another way. "I'll be right back," he said, standing up. "_Don't_ pull out what I've already put in."

He headed downstairs and paid for two bottles of brandy. The worst part was he wasn't even going to be able to enjoy the splurge, but if it helped things along so that he could get some peace and quiet that night, then it was well worth the expense.

Returning to the room, he shoved the first bottle into Porthos's hand and set the other within reach. "Drink that."

Porthos arched a brow at him. "You tryin' to get me drunk?"

"It's that or I punch you."

Porthos's expression darkened with a 'I-dare-you-to-try' glare. D'Artagnan just gave him an expectant look back and nodded to the brandy. Huffing, Porthos popped the cork out and took a swig. D'Artagnan settled in the chair and waited as the other man knocked back more and more. Porthos didn't get tipsy until halfway through the second bottle.

"I's no good," he slurred. "I'm still gonna feel it." He took another gulp.

D'Artagnan plucked the bottle out of his hand and set it aside. "I don't think so."

With that, he drew his arm back and sucker punched Porthos in the jaw. The force combined with the effects of the alcohol sent the large man careening into oblivion.

D'Artagnan huffed. "Finally."

Now that his patient was at last cooperative, he picked up the needle and finished stitching the wound, then cleaned and bandaged it. Afterward, he drank what was left of the brandy and climbed into the other bed. With any luck, Porthos wouldn't remember that last salient detail before it was lights out.

And d'Artagnan was never going on a mission alone with him again.


	12. "Don't Move"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> October is going by so fast with whumptober. 0_o I don't know whether that's good or not, haha.

12\. "Don't Move" — Porthos

"How the hell'd we end up in this mess?" Porthos growled as he made a mad dash through the woods.

A musket ball struck a tree trunk inches from where his head had just been, shooting splinters through the air.

"Just run!" Athos snapped.

The four musketeers continued to barrel through the forest, trying to outrun the mercenaries no doubt hired to intercept the papers they were carrying. It was rotten luck they'd gotten separated from their horses and were having to flee on foot, woefully outnumbered by the small _army_ on their tail.

D'Artagnan and Aramis were quicker and in the lead, but just as they broke through the tree line, they skidded to an abrupt stop. Porthos nearly blundered into their backs, though thankfully he didn't—a steep gorge at their feet plunged into a ravine far below.

"There!" D'Artagnan pointed to a rickety bridge made of rope and wood planks spaced evenly apart. The thing was only large enough for one person abreast and looked far too flimsy for them to simply go darting across.

"Oh, hell no." Porthos shook his head staunchly. He whipped his gaze up and down the gorge in search of another path. But there was none.

A musket ball whizzing past them spurred them into running once more, though straight for the bridge that Porthos absolutely did not want to set foot on.

"D'Artagnan first," Athos ordered. "Then Aramis."

Right. D'Artagnan being the lightest would be the best choice to test the bridge's stability.

The boy gripped the rope rails and set one foot on the first plank. The bridge immediately began to sway back and forth from the disruption to its precarious balance, sending Porthos's heart leaping into his throat.

Aramis dropped to one knee at the edge of the cliff and fired a pistol into the trees. Then he quickly reloaded and shot again. Athos was shooting too and Porthos knew he should be helping but he couldn't take his eyes off d'Artagnan as the lad carefully made his way across. Only when he set foot on solid ground on the other side did Porthos let himself breathe.

Athos glanced over his shoulder, then slapped Aramis's arm. "Go!"

Aramis jumped up and began his trek across the bridge. Porthos wanted to watch his progress too but had to help Athos with cover fire. He risked frantic glances between shooting and reloading to make sure Aramis was okay. The idiot actually paused halfway across the bridge to turn and shoot at a mercenary sneaking around the edge of the forest from the left. Not that Porthos wasn't grateful—because he hadn't seen the man—but the bridge started swinging even _more_ and then Aramis practically sprinted the rest of the way.

But he made it and started shooting from across the gully. "Athos!"

Athos wasted no time turning to cross the bridge. Porthos fired again and again at the mercenaries taking cover behind the trees. Fortunately they weren't very good shots because plenty of musket balls were flying back in Porthos's direction.

"Porthos!" Athos shouted, signaling it was his turn.

Gritting his teeth, Porthos grabbed the rope railings and stepped out onto the first plank. The sensation of swaying side to side a hundred feet above a deadly fall sent his stomach up into his throat and down again. He forced himself to hop to the next plank, muttering pleas for it to hold. The crack of pistol fire echoed around him but he only had eyes for the sheer drop between the planks at his feet.

Then searing fire scored across his leg and he stumbled, his foot slipping right between the slats. There was a brief moment where he was falling before the rest of his bulk stopped the descent, but the jarring movement upset the balance of the bridge and it lurched sideways as he clung to one side of the rail.

"Porthos!" Aramis shouted.

His heart was too busy trying to pound its way out of his rib cage for him to have breath to respond. He was leaning out over the ravine below, ready to be pitched into it. Porthos grasped frantically at the ropes around him but only succeeded in making the bridge swing more.

"Don't move!"

Oh sure, he was hanging on for dear life with a bunch of bloodthirsty mercenaries right behind him, but yeah, he shouldn't move.

The bridge vibrated and he looked up to see Aramis making his way back across it.

"What are you doin'?" Porthos yelled in alarm. "Get back!"

"Just hold on," Aramis replied.

What did the marksman think he was doing?

The bridge shook again, this time from behind, and Porthos craned his neck to see two mercenaries had reached that end of the bridge and were heading out onto it. His heart leaped into his throat; he was pretty sure that much weight was pushing it.

Aramis paused in his journey to draw his pistol and shot over Porthos's head, hitting the first mercenary and sending him pitching over the rope and plummeting to a crushing death below. The second raised his weapon, but a shot from further back hit him next, and he met the same resting place as his comrade.

"Hang on, Porthos!" Aramis kept shouting. "Don't move!"

"We're both gonna fall!" he yelled back as his friend came closer.

Aramis angled himself toward his left, trying to correct the imbalance in the bridge from Porthos leaning too far to the right. When he finally reached Porthos in the middle of the bridge, he was breathing heavily and looked far more nervous than confident.

"Alright, give me your right hand," he instructed. "Lean toward me slowly."

Porthos clenched his jaw hard enough to crack a tooth as he tried to do as told. He clutched at Aramis's hand with bruising terror, but his friend said nothing as he carefully pulled Porthos upright, leveling out the bridge.

"Okay, now, take hold of the rope here." Aramis guided Porthos's hand to move from his to the railing. Then he spread his feet to evenly distribute his weight. "Scoot back on the board."

Porthos shook his head.

"You're not going to fall through," Aramis promised. "Too much salted pork." Somehow he managed a brow waggle, which Porthos glowered at. "Come on, then pull your leg up."

Porthos was shaking so much he didn't know if he could keep his balance. But the mercenaries were still behind them and Aramis paused in helping to shoot his second pistol at one charging toward the bridge. He wouldn't be able to reload out here, which left only Athos and d'Artagnan to fire across the gorge.

Taking a deep breath, Porthos inched back and started to pull his leg up. The movement reignited the fire in his thigh from the graze he'd taken, but he gritted his teeth against it and managed to get his boot up through the slats.

"Good," Aramis coaxed. "Take your time." Despite his calm tone, he threw a harried glance past Porthos.

"Right," Porthos growled and heaved himself up. The bridge lurched and they both hung onto the ropes for dear life. Then they resumed their hasty journey to the other side where Athos and d'Artagnan were waiting.

Once safely across, Athos drew his sword and sliced through the ropes, sending their side of the bridge falling toward the ravine. The mercenaries pulled up short at the edge on the opposite side and continued to shoot at them, but the musketeers made a hasty retreat out of range.

Porthos grunted at the searing pain in his leg, and the further they went the more he started limping.

Aramis pulled up short and turned back to him. "Let me see your leg."

"We should keep movin'," he argued.

"It'll take them a while to find another way across," Aramis countered. "And you can't run like that."

"D'Artagnan and I will scout ahead," Athos said, nodding to the young Gascon, and they both headed off.

Porthos eased himself down against a tree and straightened his leg with a grimace. Aramis crouched next to him and fingered the tear in his trousers.

"Just a graze."

Porthos harrumphed in response.

"It'll need to be cleaned soon," Aramis went on. "But for now we'll have to settle for just binding it."

Porthos removed his bandana and handed it over. Aramis nodded in thanks and used it as a makeshift bandage.

"Thanks fer comin' back fer me," Porthos said gruffly. "Even though you shouldn't have."

Aramis flashed him one of those cocky grins. "Come now, Porthos, I'd never leave you hanging like that."

He huffed. "We could've both fallen."

Aramis shrugged. "Then we would have climbed back up together."

Porthos rolled his eyes. More likely they both would have been dashed upon the rocks below.

But he did take comfort in the belief that they could survive anything. Together.


	13. Adrenaline

13\. Adrenaline — Aramis

The attack came out of nowhere; mercenaries had been lying in wait along the forest road and as soon as the musketeers passed through, they had broken from their cover and descended upon the four. Aramis swung himself off his saddle and drew his sword. There was no time to go for his musket first, as the attackers were already too close. Athos and Porthos had yet to dismount before they were accosted by brandished blades. They managed to draw their swords and parry, but fighting on horseback in the woods was not ideal. D'Artagnan, quicker in the saddle, had slid down and was preparing to engage as well.

Aramis clashed blades with one opponent, steel singing in the previously tranquil forest. Locking swords at the hilt, he took the brief catch in their duel to whip out his pistol and fire at another mercenary charging up to him from the left. He then flipped his pistol over, catching the smoking barrel with his gloved hand, and bludgeoned the first man in the face. He dropped like a stone, his blade sliding off Aramis's with a screech.

Aramis whirled to find the next, and there were plenty. Each of his brothers were engaged with two apiece, with more spilling down the incline to their right. To their left was another small dip and then an abrupt cliff edge. Aramis was going to have to watch out for that.

Swords clanged in a discordant symphony, punctuated now and then by a pistol shot. Aramis drove his foe back relentlessly, the rush of battle coursing through his veins. One more thrust, and he dispatched that one.

Another report cracked the air. Aramis flinched and d'Artagnan yelped, the young Gascon falling backward and tumbling toward the cliff. Aramis bolted forward and threw himself to the ground, catching d'Artagnan's arm just as the boy went rolling over the edge. Aramis's elbow snapped taut with a jolt and he gasped at the shock of it, but he held tight. A mercenary charged at his vulnerable position, and Aramis had already fired both his pistols.

Athos leaped into the man's path and parried the strike meant for him. Aramis gritted his teeth and turned his attention back to d'Artagnan, lashing his other hand around the boy's arm. D'Artagnan was dangling over a ravine three stories down, his eyes wide and terrified.

"Hold on!" Aramis shouted. He shifted to get his knees under him for balance, and then heaved. D'Artagnan's other hand scrabbled to grab hold of Aramis's sleeve. A side stitch twinged his muscles as Aramis pulled with all his might. D'Artagnan's head crested the ledge, then his shoulders. Aramis flung his weight fully backward to haul him up the rest of the way, and d'Artagnan went sprawling on the ground, gasping. Aramis fell onto his back, also trying to catch his breath.

His eyes snapped open as he realized the battle wasn't over. Athos and Porthos were doing their best to keep the mercenaries at bay, but they were still outnumbered. Aramis snatched up his sword and dove back into the fray. Now the odds were in their favor and it was only a matter of minutes before the last of the mercenaries were dealt with.

Aramis's shoulders shook with labored breaths and his hands vibrated with adrenaline. He dropped his sword and turned to d'Artagnan. "Are you all right?"

The boy was still on the ground, an arm draped loosely across his stomach, but he gave a shaky nod. "Thanks."

Aramis turned to Athos and Porthos, searching them for signs of injury. There were some light splatters of blood but it looked to be from their enemies, not their own.

Athos wiped his blade clean and sheathed it. "We should go."

Aramis moved to pick up his spent pistols, only to freeze when he bent over and his side spasmed. He straightened with a wince and rubbed at the pulled muscle. His fingers encountered something damp and he lifted them up to his face, staring uncomprehendingly at the glistening red.

"Aramis?" Porthos's concerned voice broke through a descending haze, and then his friend was standing before him and tugging at his sash. "What the—you were shot?" he exclaimed.

Aramis glanced down in befuddlement at the growing stain. "When?" he asked confusedly.

Then his knees buckled and the world tilted. Muffled voices burbled around him but Aramis couldn't keep up as he was whisked away.

He woke to a fire poker in his side and bolted upright with a yell, only to have strong hands thrust him back down.

"Damn it, hold him!"

"Aramis," Porthos's voice snapped. "Easy. Athos has to dig the ball out."

His befuddled mind struggled to catch up, but then he was overwhelmed with agony again as Athos shoved the forceps into his flesh. He writhed against the unyielding grips pinning him to the ground. There was a squelch and the fire receded to a simmer.

"Got it," Porthos soothed, the force of his hold easing up a little.

Aramis blinked through watery eyes down at his side, his bloodied shirt pulled up and a hole oozing more until Athos pressed a clean cloth against it. He tried to arch away from the pain but Porthos and d'Artagnan were once again holding him down.

"Wh-what happened?" he gasped.

"You were shot," Porthos replied with a growl.

Aramis gaped at him. "When?"

"You already asked that," Athos pointed out flatly.

"I don't remember the answer."

"That's because you passed out," d'Artagnan put in (un)helpfully. Then the boy's expression sobered. "It must have happened before you pulled me up. There weren't any pistol shots after that." D'Artagnan shook his head in amazement. "You pulled me up with a musket ball in your gut."

Aramis stared at him in disbelief. He honestly did not remember getting shot. In fact, when d'Artagnan fell, he'd thought for a second that _he_ had been the one hit.

Athos was watching him carefully. "You truly didn't notice?"

Aramis shook his head. "No."

"How is that?" d'Artagnan asked incredulously.

"It can happen in the rush of battle," Athos explained, removing the compress to check the bleeding. "The surge of energy one experiences in life or death situations can conceal pain. Sometimes it's the only thing that can keep a man moving when he would otherwise fall."

"Too bad it doesn't last," Aramis mumbled as his stomach pulsed with fire again.

Athos gave him a dry yet sympathetic look. "I have to clean this out with spirits and then stitch it."

Aramis closed his eyes in resignation. He felt Porthos and d'Artagnan shifting to hold him down again, though this time he was more lucid and able to focus on his breathing. He sure could use that burst of numbing energy right now, but alas, it didn't work that way. He'd have to rely on his brothers to keep him grounded instead.


	14. Tear-stained

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh, we're almost halfway through. 0_o But I have a lot of stuff in the pipeline for after whumptober that I'm excited to share.

14\. Tear-stained — Constance (& d'Artagnan)

Constance scrubbed and scrubbed the damp fabric in her hands. The red stain diluted to pink but only spread, coloring a larger patch of the shirt in a widening splotch just like when blood had oozed and oozed from the wound that had torn through tender flesh and sundered sinew and muscle.

Clear drops fell onto the already soaked shirt and Constance blinked as her vision blurred. She scrubbed harder until her fingertips were raw as her tears mixed with crimson and stained the fabric further.

"Constance?" a gentle voice interrupted.

She barely heard it.

"Constance, hey." One large hand folded over hers, stilling their frantic rubbing, then gingerly took the shirt away.

A hitched sob burst free at the sudden loss and the tears streamed in hot rivulets as she finally broke down completely.

Porthos quickly set the shirt aside and pulled her into an embrace, enveloping her whole with his girth. "Hey, d'Artagnan's gonna be okay."

She sniffed messily and tried to nod. She knew that. Aramis had sewn him up and given him some herbs. They had to watch for infection but Aramis was confident they could combat any that might develop. But she still couldn't get the tears to stop coming.

Porthos rubbed her back tentatively as though unsure of the gesture. "He's strong," he went on. "The stab wound wasn't that deep. It looked worse than it was."

"I know," she said hoarsely. She turned her head to gaze at the shirt and the hole in the side that corresponded to the ragged wound in her husband's body. It could be mended. They both could be mended.

"Come on," Porthos said softly, pulling back. "You should sit wit' him."

"I should…" She gestured to the soggy shirt.

"I'll take care of it."

Constance wanted to object, wanted to insist it was her duty as d'Artagnan's wife. But her place was also at his side. So she drew back from Porthos's warm arms and hastily wiped the tears from her face. Raising her chin, she turned and headed across the garrison yard to the infirmary.

Aramis looked up at her entrance and gave her a soft smile. He set a cup of steaming liquid on the table. "I just made this up. You can get him to drink some next time he wakes."

She nodded, a spiky lump in her throat blocking the formation of words. Her gaze shifted and landed on the pale figure in one of the beds. A thin blanket covered d'Artagnan up to his waist and his bare torso was swathed in linen bandages, white and unmarked.

Constance's footsteps felt as though they were weighted by irons as she crossed the room and took a seat in the chair by the bed. This close, she could see his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. The tears threatened to come again.

His eyelids slid open and cloudy brown orbs gazed at her for a brief moment before clearing. His face cracked into a tired smile. "Hey."

She reached out to take his hand. "How are you feeling?"

He glanced down at himself and winced as though he only just remembered he'd been injured. "Not too terrible, considering. As long as I don't move."

"Can you drink some of this?" she asked, reaching for the cup Aramis had left.

D'Artagnan made a face but didn't protest as she brought the rim to his lips. He only managed a few swallows before pulling back and shaking his head. Constance hoped it was enough.

D'Artagnan looked at her and reached a limp hand out. She quickly took it again. "I'm all right," he whispered.

She breathed in deeply, inhaling the promise. This was their life, the life of a soldier and his wife. Constance clasped her husband's hand between hers and brought it to her lips, closing her eyes as a tear leaked out and trailed down her cheek, between her fingers, and onto d'Artagnan's knuckles. She let the release happen, shedding the worry, the all-consuming fear, and the shuddering relief. Then, when she felt in control of her emotions again, she opened her eyes and kissed the salty tracks away.


	15. Scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's kind of a continuation of the last piece.

15\. Scars — d'Artagnan, Athos, Aramis, Porthos

Constance sat by her husband's infirmary bed, stitching up the tear in his shirt. It was cathartic somehow, made her feel as though she were contributing something substantive to the healing process. After all, thread was used to mend both fabric and flesh.

Aramis had already sewn up the stab wound in d'Artagnan's side, had assured Constance that he would be fine. In a few weeks' time, there would only be a scar. Like the raised bumps of her stitches in his shirt, a healed but permanent reminder of how dangerous a soldier's life was. D'Artagnan had accumulated many scars from his time at war. Constance had traced each and every one mapped out on his skin. And she would continue to count the ones that were yet to come.

She'd count all of theirs.

…

"What are you doing?"

Constance paused in her stitching and glanced over as Athos blinked groggily at her from his bed. "Fixing the hole in your trousers," she replied matter-of-factly.

Though small, it was wide and made for an ugly scar in the leather; she'd had to bunch the two sides together forcefully to get them to meet, much as the surgeon had done to the corresponding hole in Athos's leg. She hoped it wouldn't make the trouser too tight fitting, but if so, she could take the stitches out and sew on a patch instead. All in due time when Athos was healed more and could put weight on the leg that had taken a musket ball.

He groaned and turned his head away from the meager candlelight. "You don't have to do that," he murmured.

"Since I'm always picking up after you lot, what's patching a few holes?" she rejoined casually and resumed her needlework.

Just because musketeers were home from the front did not mean the business they conducted was any less dangerous.

…

This shirt was a right mess, as was the leather doublet. Constance fingered the lengthy tear in dismay at how many stitches it would require—at how many stitches had been required to mend the fragile flesh of the person the garments belonged to.

But she refused to be daunted by the task, or lament its time-consuming inconvenience that took her away from her other duties around the garrison. This was just as important, maybe more so. Because a member of her family had been hurt yet again and she was determined to help with the patching up, even if it was only to his clothes.

Aramis was laid out on his stomach in deference to the twelve-inch-long gash that transected his back, starting up on his right shoulder blade and extending down toward his left hip. Specks of blood had soaked through the bandages from when he'd breathed too sharply in pain and stretched the wound. Already the physician had had to re-stitch part of it under Porthos's yelling for not having done it right the first time.

Constance took a seat at a nearby table with the coat, shirt, and her needle and thread. Porthos and d'Artagnan were staying close to Aramis, but Constance wouldn't be anywhere else for her vigil.

It was going to be a long night.

…

"'M fine, you know," Porthos said. "You don' have ta sit here all day."

"You have a concussion," Constance reminded him.

The large man grumbled under his breath. "Still, I know you have things ta do."

"Does it look like I'm not busy?" she replied, pulling the needle through the cloth in her lap and tugging it upward to make the stitch snug.

"S'rry."

He fell silent for a few minutes, letting Constance work in peace. But then he began shifting restlessly on the infirmary bed.

"'M bored. Really, I don' need ta stay here."

"You even think of trying to get up you're going to end up face planting on the floor," Constance snipped. "And I will not be picking you up. Which means Aramis will find you like that and you'll have to endure an entire lecture on proper concussion care and following the doctor's orders."

There was quiet for another few moments, then a heavy, drawn-out sigh.

"'M not that dizzy," Porthos mumbled petulantly.

"Mm-hm," Constance responded, fingers deftly wielding the needle and thread. This was a trifle fix, would barely leave a mark and it certainly wouldn't be visible under that head of dark curls.

Finished, she stood and brought the bandana over to Porthos. He looked up at her in surprise, eyes a tad too wide either from that concussion or something else.

"You patched that?"

"Of course." Constance placed a gentle hand on the top of his head, mindful of the gash that had inflicted the head injury, and gave him a swift peck on his brow. "Now sleep. I'll wake you in an hour."

…

She knew each of their scars and their stories, from the old ones shared late at night over wine to the ones she'd witnessed the harsh brutality of up close with blood and tears. They were tales of bravery and defiance, and sometimes stupidity and recklessness. These men were soldiers who ran at danger and laughed in its face. And when mortality happened to strike back, to briefly fell them, they got right back up and went back out there to resume the fight.

Constance chronicled it all through a strand of thread and a steady hand, a patchwork of scars patterned over fabric and flesh. Those were the stories of her fear, dread, and grief, but also triumph and joy. And she would not trade them for anything.


	16. Pinned Down

16\. Pinned Down — Aramis, Athos, Porthos, d'Artagnan

Another cannon ball smashed through a line of trees outside the village square, sending splintered shards showering down on the four musketeers crouched behind the remaining stone wall. Aramis ducked his head so that his hat caught most of the slivers that pelted him from above.

"This is getting annoying," he grumbled.

They were pinned down; half the square had been demolished in the siege already, leaving no cover to either the right or left of their position and only a crumbling wall as their last shield against the enemy fire that awaited them. Neither could they retreat through the rubble that had collapsed in the streets behind them.

Bodies lay sprawled around the debris: villagers caught in the initial assault and soldiers that the four musketeers had slain to give the rest time to evacuate. Their stand had saved lives, but now their own were in jeopardy.

"I hate cannons," Porthos growled from where he sat on the ground, back pressed against the wall, a cut above his eyebrow trickling blood down the side of his face.

Next to him, d'Artagnan held a bleeding arm across his stomach, his sword in his other hand at the ready though blades were of no more use here.

Athos was scanning the tree line that had just exploded, mouth pressed into a thin line as he likely evaluated the odds of making a dash that direction. Even he had to know it'd be foolhardy.

Another boom reverberated on the air, and a few seconds later a building across the square exploded.

Thoroughly vexed, Aramis gripped his musket and stood quickly, bringing the barrel up and over the rim of the wall. He placed his finger near the trigger and gave the simmering match cord a soft puff of air to fan it while simultaneously tracking the line of cannons to find an exposed operator he could take a shot at. He caught a flash of movement and steadied his aim.

There was distant boom and then a shrill whistle that was swiftly growing louder.

"Aramis!" Athos grabbed him and yanked him down a split second before a cannon ball shot overhead and struck the building directly behind them. Walls exploded, burping out a huge wave of dust and raining down shrapnel on the musketeers.

Aramis's ears were ringing and for a moment he didn't know if he could move. Athos slowly pushed off of him, and Aramis coughed at the influx of dust his friend had previously been shielding him from. Blinking through the haze, he searched out his brothers, flailing one hand to make contact with each of them. Porthos grunted. D'Artagnan shifted with a gasp. Athos slumped back against the wall, covered in dirt.

"They're just gonna keep at it, aren't they?" d'Artagnan coughed.

Aramis picked up his musket, prepared to try again, but Athos put a hand on his arm and shook his head.

"There are too many."

Aramis's jaw tightened, but he knew Athos was right. The only thing they could do was wait for the enemy to move in on foot and then rise to fight. If the cannon fire didn't take them out first.

But then Aramis noticed the cannons seemed to have stopped. Perhaps they were going to get a chance to make a stand sooner rather than later. He exchanged looks with the others, each of them squaring their jaws and giving resolute nods of solidarity.

A battle cry rose up from across the field. Aramis drew his sword, sent a quick prayer up for him and his brothers, and then got to his feet, biting back a wince at a myriad of bruises.

But the charge they'd heard wasn't coming toward them—a troop of men had rallied from the other side of the woodland and were converging on the cannons from the left, out of range of the guns. Aramis caught a glimpse of pauldrons in the blazing sun.

The four musketeers watched their comrades break upon the cannons like water, the clash of steel pealing across the field. For a moment, Aramis was too amazed to think about joining the battle himself. And, really, it seemed they weren't needed. The Musketeer regiment made swift work of the enemy soldiers manning the cannons, and a victorious cry went up as men began to flee.

Aramis, Athos, Porthos, and d'Artagnan made their way across the field. Several musketeers came to meet them, hands reaching out to lend a supporting shoulder and check for injuries. The four of them were pretty banged up but whole. And rescued, thanks to their brothers in arms.


	17. "Stay With Me"

17\. "Stay With Me" — Athos

"Stay with me. Athos, stay with me!"

A hand slapped his face and his head rocked to the side. He barely felt it, his entire body too heavy and sinking further into this numbing mire. Above him lights and shadows swirled in a dizzying splash of sickening motion. Alcohol sloshed in his stomach like a torrential sea.

He was moving—flying? The world pitched upside down and inside out and then he was being unceremoniously dropped onto a softer surface. Or maybe not. His head was full of cotton.

"Aramis…" Porthos's muffled voice said worriedly.

Bottles clinked together haphazardly.

"I need mustard and castor oil," came the clipped response.

Athos didn't bother trying to follow what was going on. He didn't care. He basked in the blissful anesthetized daze he'd worked so hard to achieve where the pain of _her_ couldn't touch him.

Then rough hands were prizing his jaw open and slick liquid was being poured down his throat. He gagged and tried to cough it up, but something slapped itself over his mouth, preventing the purge. Now he thrashed, or at least tried to. He felt his body bucking in response, choking on the foul unguent. And then liquid fire was surging up from his stomach and he was rolled onto his side as exquisite agony stole the rest of his senses.

Everything was foggy after that—the alternating sensations of hot and cold, his head pounding, his stomach churning. Indistinct voices floated around him for a long time until words started to make sense again.

"Damn you!" someone hissed, followed by clanging bottles that sent horrid vibrations through Athos's head. "You care so little for your life? So little for what your death would do to Porthos?" The taut voice cracked. "To me?"

Athos pried his eyelids open and watched dark blobs slowly coalesce into the shapes and contours of his own apartments. Turning his head, he saw Aramis standing over the table, back to him, palms pressed into the wood and head bowed between his shoulders.

"I will not watch another musketeer throw his life away," the marksman said brokenly.

Athos roved his gaze around the room. It was empty save for them. He swallowed around the rancid taste in his mouth and tried to piece together the snippets of distorted memories flickering through his mind. He'd been at the tavern like he was every night, had ordered a bottle of wine, and then another. The drink barely numbed the pain in his heart and he knocked back more and more. Aramis had once asked if he intended to drink himself into the grave; he must have actually come close this time.

He turned his attention back to Aramis, who had yet to notice he was awake. In that moment, Athos saw what his actions must have looked like to the other man—the casual disregard for his own life…and the callous disregard for those who would be left behind. Athos drank to bury the weight of his own ghosts and demons, but Aramis carried more than his share as well. Twenty musketeers slaughtered and one who walked away and left Aramis alone among them.

It was not Athos's intention to abandon him.

But that was exactly what his actions had almost wrought. And while Athos cared little for how others might judge his own affairs, this was one thing he found he did not want to be responsible for.

"Aramis," he croaked, his throat raw.

Aramis straightened and whirled sharply, giving Athos a brief glimpse of the distraught emotions before they were swiftly hidden behind a hard mask of indifference.

"You're awake. Good. I'd ask how you feel but I can guess." He turned back around and reached for a pitcher on the table, pouring some water into a cup, which he then brought over. "Can you manage?" he asked curtly.

Athos pushed himself up onto his elbows, pausing halfway when his head reeled and pain spiked through his skull. A hand braced the back of his neck as Aramis apparently decided to take pity on him, and the rim of the cup was brought to his lips. Athos took a few careful sips, the water tasting tepid and bland. He felt a sudden yearning for wine but dared not ask for any.

Aramis set the cup aside and helped him ease back down, then started to turn away.

"Aramis," he called.

The marksman paused and glanced back. Athos found his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He couldn't apologize for what he'd done, not really. His demons were his own and there was nothing either of them could do to change that. But he knew that he could not let this open a rift between them. For as much as Aramis needed him and Porthos, Athos needed them too, lest his last grip on the world of the living fray and snap. It was tenuous enough already.

"I didn't mean it," he settled on saying, voice barely audible.

Aramis's posture was fraught with tension.

"I'm sorry it looked like it," Athos continued.

Aramis still didn't say anything.

"I can't promise I won't accidentally lose myself again. But…" He remembered a desperate plea swimming through shadows. "I will always stay, Aramis." Athos paused hesitantly. "If you will stay with me."

Aramis closed his eyes for a brief moment, then returned to the bed and clasped his arm. "Always, my friend."


	18. Muffled Scream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;) to anyone who recognizes what show I borrowed this scenario from.

18\. Muffled Scream — Aramis and Porthos

Porthos strained against the men gripping his shoulders and keeping him on his knees, hands bound behind his back. The one holding the leather strap around his neck gave a sharp yank, bringing him to heel like an animal. But none of that compared to what they were forcing him to watch.

Not even six feet away, in front of a water trough, Aramis was bowed forward, thrashing and writhing with his hands also tied behind his back as two more thugs held his head under the surface. Water sloshed up and over the sides, a frothing, roiling eddy spurred by muffled, tortured screams.

After another few seconds, the leader nodded and Aramis was yanked up, gasping, sputtering, coughing.

"How much do the authorities know about my business dealings?" the leader asked casually.

Aramis let out a series of ragged coughs and probably couldn't even hear the question. Not that it had changed since this cycle of interrogation had begun.

Porthos tried to catch his brother's eye. From the moment they'd been captured, they'd silently agreed not to give these men anything. It was proving harder and harder to keep that commitment though.

Aramis's chest was heaving and his eyelids were fluttering as he slanted his gaze toward Porthos. A subtle dip of his chin signaled he was still with him—and not to say anything. Porthos clenched his jaw.

At their silence, the leader waved to his men, and they shoved Aramis's head into the trough again. The water churned and bubbled with the distorted sounds of air escaping lungs, failing to be replaced.

Porthos pulled and strained, ignoring the bite of the leather band around his throat. "I'll kill you," he seethed.

The scoundrel gave him an unimpressed look. With a flick of his fingers, Aramis was hauled upward again. He was now soaked all down his front, water streaming from his hair and down his face. He swayed on his knees, only remaining upright because of the unyielding grip fisted in the back of his coat.

"My patience is wearing thin."

Aramis let out a gurgling cough. "Everyone…knows…everything," he gasped with an irreverent half grin.

The leader shook his head in disgust. "Shoot out his knee."

"No!" Porthos shouted, lunging against the men holding him as Aramis was dragged a few feet away from the trough and thrown on the ground.

The goon raised his pistol, but just as he was about to pull the trigger, another distant report sounded, and he jerked as he abruptly fell. A second pistol shot rang out, hitting another man. The leader scrambled for cover while his remaining men drew their weapons in response to the unknown threat, which was just revealing itself as Athos and d'Artagnan charged out from the tree line. They had two more pistols between them and their shots struck true, taking out two more men. Then they drew their swords and clashed with those remaining.

With his hands tied behind his back, Porthos had to shimmy over to Aramis, not sure how he was going to cover his friend but determined to try. Of course Athos and d'Artagnan made quick work of the ruffians, though the leader had apparently gotten away. They could hunt him down later, now that they had confirmation of his illegal business dealings.

Aramis lay on the ground, head torqued to the side as weak coughs wracked his body. Athos dropped down on his other side and rolled him slightly so he could reach underneath and cut his bonds. D'Artagnan came around behind Porthos to free him as well.

Once his hands were loose, he immediately reached to brace Aramis, forgetting the leather band still around his neck. "Easy. How much did you swallow?"

Aramis coughed, his breath crackly. "Enough."

In wordless agreement, both Porthos and Athos rolled him onto his side again and Athos gave his back a few firm slaps. Aramis jerked and choked on a garbled cry before more water came up. Athos switched to rubbing his back as it was expelled.

"Easy," Porthos soothed. "Jus' get it out." He flinched as fingers brushed across his neck.

"Sorry," d'Artagnan said, holding his palms up.

Porthos gave himself a sharp shake. "No, it's okay."

Casting him a questioning glance to double check, d'Artagnan resumed undoing the leather strap. Porthos swallowed hard once it was gone and reached up to gingerly touch what he was sure was a blossoming welt.

"That looks painful," the young Gascon commented quietly.

Aramis looked up, expression pinching. "I have a salve you can put on it."

"As long as you drink some of that foul tea you carry around too," Porthos rejoined.

Aramis's smile was wan but fond, and he patted Porthos's knee.

"Let's get out of here," Athos said. "Can you walk?"

Aramis nodded and rolled onto his back. "Since you saved my leg. Thank you."

"When we catch up to that bastard, I'd like ta shoot 'im in the leg," Porthos growled.

"Noted," Athos replied.

They gripped Aramis under the arms and helped pull him to his feet. He was shaky and pale and Porthos would be worrying over this ordeal for a while. But they'd come out relatively unscathed, thanks to their other two brothers. They'd be all right.


	19. Asphyxiation

19\. Asphyxiation — d'Artagnan

D'Artagnan struggled against the mob propelling him across the field to the large oak tree atop a small knoll, a stooped and gnarled agent presiding over the judge, jury, and executioner. Which in this case was the entire village, angered by the King's taxes and finding a target for their malcontent in the musketeers that had ridden through.

D'Artagnan didn't know where the others had gotten to; someone had thrown a rock at Porthos and it must have glanced off his head because Aramis was then trying to get him out of the fray. Athos and d'Artagnan had been trying to hold off the attacking villagers to cover their escape before making their own, but d'Artagnan had been pulled off his horse and swallowed in the masses. By the time he'd surfaced, the others were nowhere in sight.

And then he was immediately being dragged outside the town, people running ahead to throw a noose over a sturdy tree branch. His heart lurched and he strained to break away, but there were too many. His hands were yanked together and bound with rope, and then the thick, coarse fiber was being looped over his head and around his neck.

"Don't do this!" he shouted over the din of jeers and calls for blood. His blood. He wasn't even technically a musketeer; he hadn't done anything to warrant such hatred.

There was no cart to stand him on. Four men grabbed the other end of the rope and began to pull. The noose yanked upward, crushing d'Artagnan's windpipe. A gurgled gasp escaped his lips before his airway was completely cut off. He tried to thrash, to wriggle it loose, but the men held fast. D'Artagnan choked and hiccoughed. This wasn't a hanging; this was a slow, excruciating torture. His heart was fit to burst right through his rib cage while his lungs began to burn. His chest hitched and jumped, trying to draw in breath. The rope fibers bit into his skin and added fire without as well as to within.

Black spots flitted across d'Artagnan's vision. His eyes were frozen wide open; he could feel them bulging under the pressure against his throat, and he was horrifically reminded of the image of a baby bird's head being squeezed too hard.

Then there was the crack of a pistol and suddenly the pulling pressure vanished. D'Artagnan fell forward onto his hands and knees, coughing and heaving into the dirt. His throat was on fire.

Villagers scrambled around him and for a moment he thought he might be trampled. But another pistol shot sounded and someone screamed. A pair of large boots came charging through d'Artagnan's line of sight and plowed into two villagers with so much force that they went flying backward through the air. Then those boots were in front of d'Artagnan, standing guard.

He couldn't follow the movements around him though. He sucked in another painful gasp and spat a glob of saliva on the ground. His entire body was thrumming and shaking.

Someone dropped to their knees in front of him and frantically reached for the rope around his neck. He instinctively jolted.

"It's me," Aramis's harried voice broke through the haze. "Can you breathe? D'Artagnan, look at me. Can you breathe?"

D'Artagnan forced his head up, his vision blurry and stinging from the tears in his eyes. No, he _couldn't_ breathe!

Except, his lungs were shuddering inside his chest with shallow inhalations and exhalations and the burning sensation had receded to an ache instead. He was getting air, however minute it was.

Aramis slipped the noose over his head and cast it aside roughly. Then he was cupping d'Artagnan's neck and probing it with gentle yet urgent fingers. D'Artagnan tried to flinch away.

"Sorry, I need to make sure your larynx isn't crushed."

D'Artagnan shook his head. No, he wasn't dying, he realized that now. Even if his body had yet to catch up to the same conclusion.

Athos knelt on his other side and cut the rope around his wrists. The lines of his mouth were tight and there was flint in his eyes. "Aramis?"

"I think he's all right. He's breathing, even though I'm sure it's painful."

D'Artagnan nodded.

"Don't try to talk yet," Aramis advised.

He wasn't going to.

"Can we get out of here?" Porthos growled.

D'Artagnan looked up, blinking at the blurry bulk of Porthos still standing guard over them, a hasty bandage around his head. The villagers appeared to have fled—for now. He nodded again. He wanted to get as far away from here as possible.

Hands gripped his arms and hauled him up. Then he was led across the field, away from the hangman's tree, to where their horses waited by the edge of the woods. His own was a ways down, closer to the village where he'd been grabbed. D'Artagnan pulled up short, his initial inclination to whistle for his steed, but he knew that was impossible.

"We'll get her," Aramis said in his ear, apparently reading his thoughts.

The marksman let go of him long enough to mount his own horse, then leaned down to grip his arm as Athos helped push him up behind Aramis.

"Keep breathing," Aramis said over his shoulder. "I'll tend your injuries when it's safe to stop."

Again, d'Artagnan could only nod. Keep breathing.

Keep breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will continue in tomorrow's prompt.


	20. Trembling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the continuation from yesterday.

20\. Trembling — d'Artagnan

D'Artagnan sat in front of the campfire, two pairs of cloaks draped over his shoulders. Aramis had cleaned the abrasions on his neck and applied some salve, then wrapped it. The bandages felt almost as constricting as the noose that had left the marks on him.

D'Artagnan reached up to touch them, only to notice his hand was trembling. He quickly put it back in his lap. It continued to shake. He furled it into a fist, trying to squeeze out the weakness, but it didn't stop.

He didn't understand; he'd been in situations where he could have died before. Every time he picked up his sword in a fight, there was a chance of being defeated. When he'd been trying to stop Vadim, he'd been tied to a stack of gunpowder barrels and left to be blown up. He'd narrowly escaped that. He didn't think this should have been any different.

But it was. He could still recall the sensation of the rope pulling taut and cutting off his airway. He could feel the burn in his lungs and lurch in his chest as his body realized it was slowly suffocating. He'd been helpless to stop it, helpless to fight back.

His stomach fluttered and a full body shudder rippled through him at the memory. He looked around quickly to make sure the others hadn't noticed, but they were busy puttering around the camp: Aramis at the fire, Athos gathering more wood for the night, and Porthos seeing to the horses.

Aramis stood and brought over a tin cup with steam wafting from the top. "Here. I'm afraid we don't have any honey to make this more palatable, but the licorice root will help with the pain." He held the cup out.

D'Artagnan automatically lifted a hand to take it, cursing the visible tremor in his muscles. He grasped the cup and quickly pulled it down to his lap, the motion sloshing some of the contents over the rim. He ducked his gaze in embarrassment.

A hand settled on his shoulder and squeezed in what felt like sympathy, but the gesture only made d'Artagnan's cheeks burn more. He refused to look up again and dipped his chin down as he lifted the cup with both hands to take a sip. He winced as the liquid went down his pipe, igniting the fire again.

"Just go slow," Aramis said.

D'Artagnan didn't want to, but drinking slow sips at a time gave him something to keep his hands occupied with and an excuse not to look at anyone. Why was he so affected, damn it!

Maybe he was wrong; maybe he didn't have what it took to be a musketeer after all.

The others moved around him, settling in for the night. They'd ridden far enough away from the village that had tried to hang d'Artagnan that they felt safe to stop and tend his wounds. Unfortunately, they were still another day's ride from Paris.

D'Artagnan stared at his hands, flexing his fingers tighter and tighter around the tin cup in an effort to just get them to _stop_ trembling, but it wasn't working. They only shook harder.

A steady hand moved into his vision and placed itself over his. "D'Artagnan," Aramis said with such gentleness that he felt like a child. Aramis took the cup from his hands and set it aside. "Are you still in pain?"

Tears pricked the corners of his eyes at the utter _care_ and he angrily shook his head.

"What is it?" Athos asked from across the campfire.

And that was it, the final straw. D'Artagnan couldn't bear their concern—Athos's concern—when he didn't deserve it.

"'M sor'y," he rasped, the muscles in his abused throat grating harshly. "I should be- handling this- better." He swallowed back a pained mewl that speaking caused.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," Aramis said, moving to sit beside him.

"I'm not- cut out to be- a musketeer."

"Why would you say that?" Athos asked in that calm manner that only added fuel to the fire in d'Artagnan's rib cage.

He thrust his hands out, the shaking more prominent as they hung in the air.

Aramis took hold of them and brought them back down. "That's normal. Coming that close to death, one can't not be affected. The first field battle I was in, there were cannons. One hit not six feet from where I was standing. I was thrown to the ground, showered in dirt and blood from the man who had been standing six feet away. I couldn't hear, was disoriented. There were more explosions around me. I thought I was going to die. For the rest of that campaign, every time I heard cannon fire, even our own side, it nearly sent me into a panic."

D'Artagnan furrowed his brow skeptically.

"I remember when I got this," Porthos spoke up, pointing to the scar across his eye. "I couldn't see past all the blood. I didn't know then that face wounds tend ta bleed a lot, even when they're not that bad. I thought I was gonna die. Couldn' stop shakin' through the stitches or fer hours afterward."

"You still can't sit still for your stitches," Aramis rejoined.

"D'Artagnan," Athos put in. "It is not weakness to understand one's mortality. It's what keeps us alive."

D'Artagnan pursed his mouth in thought.

"And you get used to it," Aramis added. "With time and experience."

Experience meaning more brushes with near-death? The mere thought made his stomach cramp.

But he _did_ want to be a musketeer. He looked around at his friends, tried to imagine them as young and untested, and saw how far they'd come. He could do it too.

Especially with them to stand beside him along the way.


	21. Laced Drink

21\. Laced Drink — Athos

Athos felt a tingle in his fingers. He stared at his hand resting atop the tavern table, imagining he could see the pinpricks currently peppering his digits. But he was soon distracted by a sweltering wave of heat that made him dizzy and sick. He tugged at the laces of his shirt to loosen them. He was nowhere near done with his nightly activities but it was so stifling he was going to have to go out for some air soon.

"Athos, are you listening?"

He blinked. When had someone joined him? Three blurry figures were standing around his table.

"Athos."

He reached for one of the shadows, only to grasp empty air and pitch to the side. Hands swiftly caught him.

"Whoa there," one of them rumbled. "Had enough maybe?"

"He barely finished the one bottle."

"Athos?" a third queried. A hand pressed against his brow.

Then a face was suddenly in front of his so close that he jerked away, but the set of large hands were still gripping his shoulders. Another pair captured his head and held it firmly as too-large eyes peered into his.

"D'Artagnan, don't drink that!" the figure suddenly snapped.

"What?" The slighter shape quickly set the wine bottle back on the table.

The one in front of Athos moved away and snatched it up instead, taking a whiff. Despite his sharp warning, he took a tentative sip, only to immediately spit it back out. "It's been laced with something. We need to get him back to the garrison."

The shapes moved again and now Athos was being hauled out of his seat and thrown over someone's shoulder. It was terribly undignified and he would have protested except his head was swimming and he couldn't tell up from down.

Stepping from the tavern to the street did nothing to alleviate the stifling heat that seemed to be fueling a fire in his belly. His stomach cramped with such ferocity that he nearly threw up all down his friend's back.

The journey through Paris was dizzying and he was relieved when he was finally laid down on a cot.

"I'll send for a physician," a new voice said.

"You can but we can't wait for one," that familiar urgent one replied. "He needs an emetic now."

As if in response, another cramp struck, squeezing his insides with rending agony. Athos cried out and tried to roll over and curl in around his stomach. Hands grasped his arms, shoulders, and the back of his neck, both bracing and squeezing in a helpless gesture of comfort.

"Hurry, Aramis."

"I've got it. Athos, you must drink this."

The liquid that was forced into his mouth was wretchedly familiar and his gag reflex was automatic. He still swallowed some of it, and when it hit his stomach and combined with the acidic bile, the reaction was nearly instantaneous.

The next few minutes were ones he wished could be scoured from his recall forever. After that he was laid back on the cot and straightened out, though the pain in his stomach didn't let up. There was a flurry of words and movement, though he could barely follow. He was so _hot_.

A cold wet cloth was placed on his forehead and he moaned. Opening his eyes, he found Aramis sitting by his side, and the distressed expression tore at his heart.

"Aramis…I didn't…" he gasped. He didn't know how this had happened but he didn't think he had lost himself again. "I know I…I promised."

Aramis stroked back some damp hair from his sweaty brow. "I know, Athos, this was not your doing. You were poisoned."

His brow pinched. Poisoned?

"Porthos and d'Artagnan have gone back to the tavern to speak with the proprietor. The bottle must have been laced before it was brought to you. Whether you were the intended victim or not, they will find out, and they will find who is responsible."

Athos closed his eyes and winced. "Am I dying?" he asked hoarsely.

"Not if I can help it. You know me better than that."

He snorted despite the agony. "Indeed."

And even though the next several hours were excruciating, Athos found himself clinging to his brother's obdurate promise. Aramis never left his side, not even when the physician arrived and did his own examination and pronouncement, which happened to align with Aramis's. He prescribed another tonic, one that was foul and threatened to upset his stomach again, but Aramis coaxed him into drinking it bit by bit, and gradually the cramping in his stomach began to release its vise-like hold on his organs. His temperature slowly came down, leaving him drenched in sweat.

By the time the poison's effects seemed to have fully abated, Athos was completely spent, not even able to lift his head from the pillow. Pale morning light seeped through the windows.

Aramis ran a cloth over Athos's face, his own drawn and exhausted from the ordeal as well.

"You should rest," he rasped. "I don't believe I'm at risk anymore."

Aramis gave him a weak smile. "No, you'll be fine." He set the rag down and raked a hand through his hair, leaving his curls askew. "Need anything?"

"No."

Aramis nodded, then moved to the next cot over and stretched out on it. Athos sighed with fond exasperation. He'd never admit it out loud, but he was grateful not to be left alone.

"Aramis. Thank you."

"Always, my friend," he mumbled before immediately drifting off.

Athos closed his eyes and breathed in the life God kept giving back to him through angels disguised as men.


	22. Hallucination

22\. Hallucination — Aramis

Aramis threw a hand out to catch himself against a tree. His legs trembled with weakness and his vision swam. He had been too long without food, water, and proper sleep, held captive in a rebel camp.

"Keep moving," Athos ordered.

Aramis hung his head in exhaustion. His friend had been relentless since helping him escape.

Snow crunched under his boots and Aramis carefully lowered himself enough to scoop up a handful. The cold bit into his exposed fingers and he quickly shoved the snow into his mouth. It hurt his teeth at first but melted quickly and soothed his parched throat. Straightening up, he spotted Marsac standing off to his left, dressed in a blood splattered shirt, pauldron missing. Marsac cocked his head for Aramis to follow.

"Aramis," Athos snapped from further ahead. "This way."

Aramis shook off the image of his old friend and continued his lumbering trek through the woods. This wasn't Savoy; it was France, and the Musketeer regiment had to be camped somewhere nearby for Athos to have found him. They'd been sent to quell the rebellious movement, after all.

Athos led the way, pushing through the white-washed wood, hand on the hilt of his sword prepared to cut down any foe. Aramis stumbled behind him, trying his best to keep up. He was freezing, and the cold brought its own specters from another forest far away. Marsac trailed in the rear, silent and haunting, like a revenant that'd caught a scent of blood and death.

Aramis tripped and landed on his knees in the snow, wetness swiftly seeping through his trousers.

Crunching footsteps made their way back to him. "Aramis, you have to get up."

He let out a heavy sigh. He knew that. His gaze was automatically drawn to the side. "Marsac…"

"He's not there," Athos said sharply.

Aramis squeezed his eyes shut, but when he opened them again Marsac was still standing a short distance away, waiting. Aramis knew he wasn't real. Marsac had left. Had left Aramis in the woods with twenty dead musketeers. That he'd come back for Aramis now was not a boon.

"I know," he whispered and struggled to get up.

The light was waning as they kept going, Athos a steady beacon ahead that kept him on the path while Marsac flitted in and out of his vision, tempting him to stray.

Aramis thought he could make out a camp up ahead and perhaps the blue of friendly cloaks. Someone that sounded like Porthos shouted his name incredulously.

He stumbled and let himself collapse. He was close enough now; his brothers would come to him.

"Captain!"

There was a flurry of movement and hands lifting him up and then darkness.

When he came to, it was to the sensation of being bundled in warmth and the sound of a fire crackling nearby.

"Aramis," someone prompted.

He prized his eyes open. He was in a tent, lying on a slightly raised pallet, it seemed. Captain Treville sat on a squat stool by his side, watching him intently.

"Captain," he rasped.

Treville's tense expression softened. "Welcome back." He gestured to someone, and a moment later Porthos appeared with a cup of something wafting steam.

Aramis tried to sit up but found his limbs wouldn't cooperate. The captain lifted his head and Porthos held the cup to his lips. The warm broth was divine and Aramis had to force himself to remember not to gulp it down too fast.

He closed his eyes as Treville laid him back down. "You found me," he whispered.

"Hard ta miss ya when you come stumbling into camp," Porthos said.

"I mean Athos." Aramis forced his eyes open again and roved his gaze around until it landed on his friend standing behind Porthos and the captain.

Athos frowned at him. "Porthos spotted you first, Aramis. He called the captain and alerted us to your arrival."

Now Aramis was frowning. "No, you broke me out of the rebel camp. Led me through the woods."

Athos exchanged a troubled look with the others. "No," he said, tone unusually heavy with regret. "We didn't know where the rebel camp was. You escaped on your own."

Aramis could only stare at him in confusion. He remembered it so clearly…except, didn't he? It was starting to become hazy: finally breaking his bonds, slipping out the back of the tent, the harried dash through the forest, Athos pushing him to keep going.

He dropped his head back and closed his eyes.

Someone patted his arm and Treville said, "Get some rest. You can give your report after you've recovered more."

He heard footsteps retreating and then silence save for the crackle of the fire. But then he felt a displacement of air as someone moved. Aramis opened his eyes to find Athos seated on the small stool.

"I should thank you," Aramis said with a wan smile.

"I didn't do anything."

"You kept me going. Marsac was there too. He wanted me to go with him. You kept telling me he wasn't real."

"He wasn't."

Aramis quirked a wry grin at him. "Apparently neither were you."

Athos was silent for a moment. "Why do you think it was me?" he finally asked quietly, as though it troubled him. "Why not Porthos?"

Aramis thought about it for a moment. "My mind must have known that what I needed to survive was someone who had no qualms about bullying me into following his orders." He gave his friend a tired smile and reached out to pat Athos's knee. "So, thank you."

Athos shook his head but put his own hand over Aramis's. "Sleep. We're right here. For real this time."

Aramis closed his eyes. Real or not, his brothers were always looking out for him.


	23. Bleeding Out

23\. Bleeding Out — Aramis

D'Artagnan struck the flint over the kindling in frantic succession until a spark finally caught the dried foliage.

"Hurry!" Porthos barked.

"It's not catching fast enough!" d'Artagnan shouted back.

He bent himself toward the ground and blew softly, trying to encourage the embers to fan into flames. From this angle, he could see the pool of blood puddling under Aramis's arm where he lay supine on the ground, both of Porthos's meaty hands clamped tightly around his bicep. Even so, more crimson trickled out between those large fingers in red rivulets.

Athos leaped up from where he'd been crouching beside them and pulled his flask from inside his coat. "Here." Grabbing the knife d'Artagnan had set aside, he poured the alcohol over the blade, then shoved it into the fire.

The small flames whooshed up and around the blade, fed by the flammable liquid.

"Get his coat off," Athos ordered, turning the knife back and forth to heat it evenly.

D'Artagnan scrambled away from the fire and back to his fallen friend. Aramis's eyes were wide and terrified and his chest hitched with stuttering breaths. D'Artagnan faltered. "Porthos has to let go…"

"We're not going to burn his shirt into the wound," Athos countered sharply.

D'Artagnan gave himself a chastising shake; of course. He fumbled to undo the clasps of Aramis's doublet, then his sash and weapons belt so they were out of the way. He shot a terrified look at Porthos. "Ready?"

Porthos looked as unhappy as d'Artagnan felt but gave a clipped nod. Then he let go and they both worked frantically to pull Aramis's arm out of the blood-soaked sleeve. The sleeve of his shirt was soaked red, sending d'Artagnan's heart into his throat. Aramis was losing too much blood too fast.

Porthos grabbed the shirt sleeve around the tear made by the musket ball and simply rent the fabric wider until the entire upper arm was bared. Then he slammed his hands back over the holes—two of them, for the ball had gone right through. The lone would-be assassin hadn't been that great of a shot before Athos had taken him out.

Then again, maybe he had.

Aramis's eyes were drifting toward half mast.

"Athos!" d'Artagnan shouted.

Athos yanked the knife from the fire and hurried back, dropping to his knees next to Porthos. "Hold him," was the only warning he gave.

D'Artagnan shot his hands out to press down on Aramis's left shoulder and hip while Porthos let go of the wounds and grabbed Aramis's right shoulder and wrist. Athos thrust the flat side of the heated blade against the first puncture.

Aramis threw his head back against the ground and screamed, legs kicking out and scraping the dirt. The acrid smell of burning flesh made d'Artagnan want to gag. Athos held the blade in place for a few seconds before removing it. Porthos turned Aramis's arm to give a good angle on the exit wound, and Athos pressed the other side of the blade to that one. Aramis didn't scream that time, just gave a violent jerk, his eyes nothing more than slits now. D'Artagnan felt tears prick at his.

After a few seconds, Athos reared back on his haunches, releasing a shuddering breath of his own. Porthos shifted from a vise-like grip of Aramis's arm to resting the limb gently in his lap. He laid a bloodied hand on Aramis's hair and called the marksman's name. Aramis didn't respond.

D'Artagnan shakily reached for their brother's neck to feel for a pulse. It was there, weak and thready, but present. "He's alive."

But he wasn't out of danger. Cauterizing a wound was barbaric and carried any number of complications. All of which were preferable to bleeding out on the spot, of course, but they needed to hurry.

"Soak a bandage in the alcohol to wrap it with," d'Artagnan said, recalling lessons he'd gotten from Aramis in battlefield triage. Infection was their biggest worry. Along with the possibility that Aramis had lost too much blood before they'd closed the wound. In which case…

Porthos yanked his bandana off his head and handed it to Athos, who poured more of the alcohol over it before tying it around Aramis's arm. D'Artagnan fished out some clean linen from Aramis's saddlebag and wrapped that over the bandana. Then they hastily gathered up their supplies and mounted their horses, Aramis in Porthos's care, and set off at a harried pace to the nearest inn.

Hours later, they sat around the small room they'd paid for, watching the shallow rise and fall of Aramis's chest. A local herbalist had come in lieu of a trained physician and cleaned the cauterized wound, then applied honey to help with infection. She'd left a tonic to help Aramis recover his strength if he ever woke long enough to take it.

And thus the other three waited and watched as night fell and their hopes waned with the phase of the moon. D'Artagnan worried they hadn't acted fast enough, or that the trauma of burning the wound—_twice_—had been too much for his body to handle, that Aramis would never wake.

But then a couple of hours before dawn, their brother finally stirred, his face scrunching up in severe pain. Porthos leaned forward earnestly and placed a hand on his brow. "Aramis? Can you hear me?"

A garbled noise was the response, but d'Artagnan was going to take that as a good sign.

"Open yer eyes," Porthos pleaded. "Just a little. I know it hurts, but we got somethin' fer the pain."

Aramis's eyelids slowly peeled open with what looked like strenuous effort.

Porthos smiled. "That's it."

Aramis opened his mouth as though to speak, but all that came out was a pained puff of air.

"Easy," Porthos coaxed. "Just breathe. We got you."

Athos picked up the cup with the tonic the herbalist had left. "Can you manage a few sips?"

Aramis's eyes had a cloudiness to them that suggested he may not have even been fully understanding them, but Porthos slipped a hand under his head and lifted it just enough for Athos to dribble some of the liquid into his mouth. He coughed as he swallowed.

"That's it," Porthos continued. "Yer alright. Yer gonna be alright."

D'Artagnan stood at the foot of the bed, mouth pinched with the stress of the evening. But he made himself take a breath in time to the ones that kept Aramis breathing and alive and with them.

Yes, he would be all right.


	24. Secret Injury

24\. Secret Injury — Porthos

Porthos gritted his teeth in frustration and pain as he struggled to hold one end of the linen in place so he could wrap his right hand. He ended up holding the corner down with his fingers against his palm, but that stretched the muscles in the back of his hand and split the jagged skin further. Fresh blood welled up and he quickly covered it with the bandage, binding it as tightly as he could with only one hand at his disposal. Bright crimson seeped up through the first layer but was buried by the fourth.

Stitches probably would have helped but Porthos absolutely could not let anyone see the injury. For one thing, his brothers would be _furious_, liable to commit real murder. But more than that, it was humiliating. Humiliating that Porthos had been caught unawares enough to receive the wound, and humiliating because of the nature of the wound itself. No, he had to keep it secret until it healed. And then, if it scarred…well, that was the intent, wasn't it? For him to see it every day…for all to see it.

He almost clenched his fists in rage and helpless fury but remembered not to at the last second. Wiping angry moisture from his eyes with his sleeve, he went to lay down and try to sleep for what remained of the night.

Sleep eluded him though. Instead he kept replaying those moments from the night before, the memories assaulting him with the same ferocity as his assailants: memories of hateful slurs, of being held down, of the knife cutting into his skin.

He didn't want to get up the next morning, didn't want to go out there and face anyone. But hiding would only draw attention and he didn't want that either. So he got up and pulled on his gloves, wincing at the sting of his right hand in the too snug fit. The wound wasn't life threatening. He just had to go about business as usual until it healed up.

He headed out of his room and made his way to the table in the courtyard where Aramis, Athos, and d'Artagnan were already seated with bowls of porridge.

Aramis arched a brow at him. "Late night?" he asked with a cheeky grin.

Porthos made an incoherent grunt as he slid onto the bench seat.

"Must have," d'Artagnan picked up. "You almost missed breakfast."

Porthos looked at the gruel and realized he wasn't all that hungry. His right glove felt like it was full of fire ants.

Aramis's amusement shifted to confusion at his silence. "Everything all right?"

"Fine," he mumbled and reached for the water pitcher with his left hand. It felt awkward to pour with it but he managed.

"We're expected at the palace for guard duty in an hour," Athos informed him.

Porthos gave a clipped nod and knocked back the water.

Guard duty, while usually his least favorite part of being a musketeer, was a balm this time. He could stand around with his arm hanging limply by his side and not move his hand. And gradually the fiery pain began to recede.

Porthos knew he probably should have changed the bandages that night, but no blood had seeped through to the surface and he knew that trying to rewrap it himself would likely aggravate the injury, so he left it alone.

Then came a day of training, which turned out to conspire against him. There was a reason injuries were reported and men put on lighter duties until they'd healed. Porthos, however, could not betray the pain he was in. If the cuts on the back of his hand had begun to close, gripping his sword had torn them open all over again. He tried switching to his left hand, but of course that was noticed.

"What are you doing?" Athos asked, sounding mildly perplexed.

"Jus' thought I'd practice getting better wit' my left hand," he said. "Like you an' Aramis."

Athos shrugged and attacked him again. Porthos did his best to parry and thrust, but the truth was he simply wasn't as ambidextrous as the swordsman and it showed. The embarrassment over getting thrashed so easily, however, was mild compared to the other shame he carried.

Athos lowered his sword. "You should do some hand-to-hand with d'Artagnan."

The Gascon boy overheard from where he'd been sparring with Aramis and groaned loudly.

Porthos blanched. It wasn't customary to keep gloves on when practicing hand-to-hand fighting skills, and there was no way he could throw a punch with his right hand. Losing to Athos badly was one thing; losing in the one area he was supposed to be the best was another entirely.

"Eh, I think he's had enough punishment from me lately," Porthos tried to deflect with a grin.

Athos, however, ignored it and gestured for d'Artagnan to come over. The boy let out an audible put-upon sigh and shrugged out of his coat. Porthos wavered, but with no other choice, he stepped out into the middle of the training yard. He noticed both Aramis and d'Artagnan cast odd looks at the gloves he hadn't taken off but neither commented on them. When d'Artagnan attacked, Porthos did his best to look like he was going on the defensive purposefully—ducking swings and slapping d'Artagnan's arm aside as he danced away.

The boy scowled at him. Yes, it looked as though Porthos was toying with him, but it wasn't his intention to humiliate d'Artagnan. Porthos tried to put a little more effort into the sparring.

D'Artagnan wasn't holding back though and was giving his all, which eventually forced Porthos to react instinctively. He nearly cried out when he automatically threw a right hook that connected with d'Artagnan's stomach. The force of the blow wasn't even that hard but Porthos staggered and pulled his hand in protectively. He completely missed the punch d'Artagnan swung his way and, bowed over already, went crashing to the ground.

Silence filled the yard and Porthos looked up to find several shocked expressions staring down at him. Even Athos looked dumbfounded. Porthos hastily tried to get to his feet.

"Porthos?" Aramis queried tentatively.

"'M fine," he growled.

"You're favoring your hand. Did you break it?"

"He didn't hit me that hard…" d'Artagnan offered, frowning at Porthos quizzically.

"It was just a bad angle," he snapped. "I'm fine." He straightened and marched past them, cheeks burning. _Damn it!_

He reached his room and slammed the door behind him. His hand was on fire again and he thought he could feel wetness. He tugged his glove off and stared at the patches of red that had bled through. The lines were splotchy from seeping but Porthos could still see the actual cuts in his mind's eye. They'd be burned there just like they were etched onto his skin permanently.

A knock sounded at the door and then it opened with barely a second in between. Porthos whirled, whisking his arm behind his back.

"I didn't say you could come in!" he spat.

Aramis's brows rose sharply, but he didn't otherwise react and closed the door behind him. "What's going on?"

"Nothin's goin' on. Can't a man have some privacy when he wishes?"

"He can, but you don't usually snap at your friends when privacy is all you want," Aramis replied calmly. His eyes tracked downward to the way Porthos was angling his arm. "What happened to your hand?"

"I said nothin'."

Aramis actually looked somewhat hurt at that. "Why are you hiding an injury from me?"

Porthos ground his teeth. "I'm…" He found he couldn't deny it. "It's not that bad. Jus' leave it alone, Aramis."

Aramis took a cautious step closer. "I will never ignore something that's causing you pain. What I don't understand is why you would ask me to."

Porthos looked away. He couldn't bear this…

Aramis reached out and gently took his arm. Porthos didn't resist as he brought it forward, revealing the bloodstained bandage around his hand.

"So the lion has a thorn in his paw?" Aramis said with a lilt of amusement, aiming for their typical levity.

Porthos couldn't respond in kind. He wanted to yank his hand back, wanted to shove Aramis out the door. But the bandages were damp with sweat and blood and his hand hurt so badly…

"Please don'," he said, voice cracking, and shame burned his face.

Aramis frowned, and Porthos dropped his gaze. He felt Aramis cradle the injured limb and begin unwrapping the bandage. And then he felt his brother go absolutely still when the wound was uncovered. Porthos couldn't look at him.

"Who did this?" Aramis asked in a low, tightly controlled voice as hard as steel.

"Don' matter," Porthos mumbled.

"_Who_?"

Porthos finally lifted his head and saw the storm in his friend's eyes. This was exactly what he'd been wanting to avoid. "Some red guards," he begrudgingly admitted.

Aramis's nostrils flared, but though violence was clearly simmering on the surface, his touch on Porthos's hand remained gentle as he ghosted his fingers around the bright lines carved into the back of Porthos's hand. Three separate curving slashes delivered with seething hate.

_Cur_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow-up to come in tomorrow's prompt.


	25. Humiliation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow-up to yesterday's prompt.

25\. Humiliation — Porthos

Porthos sat hunched over at the table in his room. Aramis had gone to get his med kit and fresh bandages, but he was taking his time about it. Porthos could only imagine he had stopped to tell Athos and d'Artagnan about what happened.

Porthos clenched the fist of his uninjured hand. He hadn't asked Aramis _not_ to tell them, and he supposed they would find out eventually, but damn it, he hadn't wanted them to know. He didn't want to see their pity, equally as burning as the scathing slur carved into the back of his right hand with a blade.

The door opened behind Porthos, spilling in daylight and a shadow before quietly closing again. Aramis came around into Porthos's line of sight. He set his medical supplies on the table and dragged the other chair closer before taking a seat. Then he reached for the injured hand lying on the table and moved it to his lap.

"I'm going to clean it again," he said. "You've been keeping it in that sweaty glove all the time."

Porthos bristled at the implied chastisement, though there wasn't actually judgement in the tone.

Aramis tipped a flask of spirits onto a patch of cloth, and Porthos braced himself for the inevitable burn as the alcohol touched the raw lacerations. Aramis usually had a gentle hand as a medic, but this time he seemed to be exceedingly tender with his ministrations.

"How did it happen?" he asked quietly.

A muscle in Porthos's jaw ticked and he looked away.

He'd been coming home after a late night at the tavern enjoying ale and a good card game. And yes, he'd been drunk, happily so, but that never would have knocked him out of a fight.

A fair one, at least.

_He was grabbed from behind by several pairs of arms before he could even register it was happening. A beefy arm hooked itself around his neck and wrenched it back, restricting his movement. He was dragged right off the street into an abandoned building filled with chalky moonlight. He bucked and thrashed to throw his attackers off, but at least four had a good grip on him and he couldn't shake it. His legs were suddenly kicked out and he was driven to his knees, the momentum almost carrying his assailants down on top of him, though they righted themselves quickly enough._

_"What do you want?" Porthos snarled. He couldn't see their faces in the dark, but he thought he saw swatches of red that looked like uniforms._

_"To put you in your place," one of them responded._

_His right arm was wrenched out to the side and slammed down onto a barrel. Someone planted a boot on his wrist to hold it still, and a knife glinted in a shaft of moonlight._

_"Like the mutt you are."_

_The blade pierced his skin and began to carve. Porthos grunted and yelled, but they didn't stop and no one came._

His eyes drifted back to the cuts Aramis was now sewing closed with careful precision. _Cur_. He'd been marked, right there on his hand for all to see. The raw redness would fade with time but the word would always be there.

Aramis nipped a bit of flesh, pulled the thread through, and tucked it under the other side. Porthos swallowed against his gag reflex at the tugging sensation. He already had his left hand pressing down on his right arm to keep himself still, but it was difficult not to fidget. He then realized Aramis was making twice as many stitches as he needed to, small and close together.

"Jus' get it over wit'," he growled.

Aramis flicked a glance up at him but swiftly returned it to his task. "I think I can minimize the scarring. Provided you don't engage in any dueling or sparring practice and ruin my needlework."

Porthos furrowed his brow. Really? Was that possible? He'd just thought… "Minimize it like it won't be seen?"

Aramis hesitated. "Unless one is looking hard enough. Maybe. I can't control how something will heal, but I will do everything I can to help it heal as completely as possible." He looked up again briefly, the desire to promise something he actually couldn't warring in troubled eyes.

Porthos nodded glumly. He supposed a chance was better than nothing.

"They will pay for this," Aramis said softly a few moments later.

"I can't identify any o' them."

"Men capable of this won't be hard to find."

"I probably beat one of 'em in a card game," Porthos muttered sullenly.

Aramis lifted his head sharply. "That does not make this okay. _Nothing_ justifies treating a man so."

Porthos's throat constricted again. No, it didn't.

"You gonna tell the captain?" he asked.

Aramis finished the last stitch and tied off the thread. "I will tell him you injured your hand and should be put on light duties for a few days."

"Not…the rest of it?"

Aramis paused to consider him. "No. There were witnesses in the yard today. I'll say something sharp like a nail or shard got caught in your glove and you cut your hand." He started to clean up and pack the supplies.

Porthos gave a clipped nod of gratitude.

Aramis stood to leave, but stopped and placed a hand on Porthos's shoulder. "You are not the one who should be ashamed here. And do you really think any of your brothers would ever look at you differently because of the actions of others? Especially those of despicable men?"

Porthos ducked his gaze. "I was taken without much of a fight. I didn't even get a single punch in, not even after they…finished," he gritted out.

They'd shoved him to the floor and kicked him twice in the stomach, leaving him winded as they calmly walked back out into the night.

"You were outnumbered. You didn't _let_ this happen, Porthos," Aramis said fervently. His gaze hardened. "And they will not get away with it."

Porthos didn't say anything to that. There would be no justice for this heinous crime. He couldn't name his attackers, and he knew his accusations would be worth little in a court of law or even before the King. And even if that weren't the case, he would not be able to bear the humiliation of going before the King and revealing what had been done to him. His brothers may not look at him differently, but others would.

No, better he just forget it ever happened…if the scars faded with Aramis's fine needlework.

He didn't bother putting the glove back on to hide the bandages. With the marks themselves covered, he didn't yet have to worry about people seeing what they spelled. And now that he was on light duty and not aggravating the wounds, the pain started to recede. Aramis checked them every night and rubbed some special salve into them before re-bandaging them.

Athos and d'Artagnan never made a single comment about it all, though Porthos often caught Athos sitting at the table under a dark cloud, and d'Artagnan wasn't subtle with his looks of concern. They hadn't seen the wound, and Porthos had no intention of showing them.

Then, one morning, there seemed to be an extra flurry of activity outside the garrison. Porthos arched a brow curiously as people exchanged excited chatter in a titter. Pierre came jogging into the courtyard.

"You're never going to believe this," he said. "Five members of the Red Guard were found this morning, strung up in the square like chickens."

"Dead?" Treville called down from the balcony.

Pierre blinked and looked up. "No, sir. They weren't hurt at all. Just…uh, completely naked. When people started showing up for the market."

Porthos's brows shot upward and he couldn't help but slide a narrowed look at his brothers.

"That is a terrible sight to inflict on poor French citizens," Aramis tutted.

"Indeed," Athos replied.

Porthos didn't dare look up, though he could practically feel their captain's gaze boring into them.

"Is there something I should know about?" Treville asked sharply.

Aramis, Athos, and d'Artagnan all exchanged nonchalant looks.

"No, I don't think so," Aramis said.

"I didn't see anything unusual on our way to the tavern last night," d'Artagnan put in. "Athos?"

"I wasn't paying attention."

Porthos did his best to not fidget. He hadn't been aware of a trip to the tavern last night. Leastwise, _he_ hadn't been invited.

"Porthos?" Treville queried.

Taking a breath, he plastered on a confused look as he glanced up. "Nope. Sorry, Captain. Do you want us ta investigate?"

Treville regarded each of them for a long moment. "Let the Cardinal handle his own affairs," he said and went back into his office.

Now Porthos did shoot his brothers a pointed look.

Aramis smiled and tipped his hat. "And we handle ours."


	26. Abandoned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ack, October is almost over!

26\. Abandoned — Aramis

Aramis gazed out at the line of raw recruits with their slouched postures and too few beards. Soldiers these were not. But they all had to start somewhere. This particular regiment was new, a whim of a local baron but one who had favor with the King, and so when he requested the best of the King's men to help train his recruits from the ground up, Aramis had been loaned out. He didn't really mind. Athos and Porthos had come as well to teach sword fighting skills and hand-to-hand while Aramis focused on marksmanship. At the moment, he'd brought the group out to the countryside for a short training exercise.

"Learning to hit a target that isn't moving is the foundation of marksmanship," he said to the men. "But in battle there are other factors to account for. Movement. Varying angles. Wind." Aramis pointed to a white flag he'd affixed to a tree branch across the field, the small piece of fabric fluttering in a slight breeze. "Jean, you're up first."

The young man took up position and raised his musket. Aramis coached him through lining up the shot, watching the wind's behavior and judging how it would affect both the target and trajectory. Jean squeezed the trigger, and the musket ball struck a tree trunk three feet away with a thud and burst of splinters.

Aramis called up the next recruit, then the next. None of them hit the target, but he hadn't expected them to on the first try. When the last one had taken his turn, Aramis picked up his own musket, braced the butt against his shoulder, and aimed. After a few beats, he fired. The branch holding the flag snapped and fell to the ground. Awed whispers rippled through the recruits.

"Keep practicing," Aramis advised. "That's the only way to become better."

He was about to instruct them to reload their muskets to go again when a shrill whistle rent the air. Aramis turned as a group of riders crested a small knoll at a galloping pace, heading right for them. A pistol shot cracked the air and a ball whizzed past him. Another shot followed.

"Reload!" Aramis shouted. He grabbed a powder packet from his pouch and ripped it open, stuffing it down the barrel of his musket. The weapon was primed and ready within seconds and he raised it to fire. One of the horsemen fell from his saddle with a cry.

But the rest of the recruits were still fumbling to load their muskets. Even if they did manage to get them ready to fire, none of them possessed the skill to hit the broad side of a barn.

"Retreat!" Aramis ordered, waving them to the woods. He drew one of his pistols and shot another attacker from his horse, covering the recruits as they ran for the trees.

A report sounded behind him and Aramis stumbled as fire slammed through his leg above the knee. He gritted his teeth and pushed himself to keep going. Hands quickly grabbed his arms to help drag him along.

There was a distant whinny of horses being pulled up, and Aramis hoped these were just bandits who wanted to steal the muskets left behind in their frantic retreat.

Agony shot through his leg with each hobbled step and he could feel hot dampness seeping through his trousers. He stumbled, nearly taking down the men half supporting his weight.

"Just leave him!" one of the recruits shouted.

The ones helping him exchanged an uncertain look, but then they were darting off into the trees after the rest of the group, leaving Aramis where he fell. For a moment, he could only stare uncomprehendingly as the snapping twigs of their harried pace faded and silence settled over the wood. Aramis tried to get to his feet but his leg buckled and he crashed to the ground with a cry.

Pushing himself upright, he scooted back against a tree and fought to control his breathing. Bright red was oozing out the hole in his leg and he clamped one hand over it tightly, choking on another strangled sound. He had no idea if the attackers were going to pursue them, but there was no way he'd be able to outrun them if they did. At this point, all he could do was try to hide and stay quiet. While not bleeding out.

Clenching his teeth, he pulled his legs in to get a better reach at the wound and pressed himself into the small hollow he found himself against. He started shivering, hands trembling jerkily. Alarmed, he quickly checked the wound but found it hadn't bled enough to cause shock just yet. But he was freezing, which didn't make sense. It was early autumn and still plenty warm. Fighting to maintain control of himself, Aramis focused on slowing the bleeding and listening for sounds of pursuit over the rush of blood in his ears.

o.0.o

Athos roved his gaze around the garrison that was still under construction. He'd already given his appraisal to the baron, who agreed to implement the suggested changes. The man was eager to build himself a regiment of renowned prestige. A little too eager, perhaps. But such things could not be rushed, and his choice of first recruits left a great deal to be desired.

"Hey," Porthos said, attention directed past Athos. "What's this?"

Athos turned to find the group of recruits hurrying toward the garrison. He frowned. Hadn't they gone out with Aramis for target practice? And yet they weren't carrying any muskets.

"What's goin' on?" Porthos called out.

"We were attacked," one of them answered breathlessly. "A group of riders came out of nowhere and just started shooting!"

"Anyone injured?" Athos asked, sweeping a surveying look over them as they filed in.

The lad hesitated. "Aramis was hit. In the leg."

Porthos stiffened. "Where is he?"

Athos searched the incoming recruits but saw no sign of Aramis among them.

"Um…he…we…"

"Speak!" Athos snapped. "Where is Aramis?"

"He couldn't run!" the boy blurted. "We…we had to get out of there. We were unarmed!"

Athos's blood ran cold.

Porthos grabbed the recruit by the lapels of his coat and slammed him against the gate. "Are you sayin' you left him?"

The boy's throat bobbed. "We…" He cast a terrified look around at his comrades, most of whom were avoiding the musketeers' eyes.

Athos stepped close into the boy's space. "Where?" he asked in a low, deadly tone.

"We cut through the woods, that way." The recruit pointed a shaky hand toward the tree line.

"How many men?"

"I-I don't know."

With a scowl, Porthos flung him around to go careening into the arms of his fellow cowards. "Any of you louts bother to count how many men had attacked you?"

There were several awkward scuffles and shifting gazes.

Porthos snorted derisively and turned back to Athos. "We goin'?"

Athos responded by drawing his sword and striding out the gate.

o.0.o

Aramis picked at the torn fabric of his trousers trying to get a look at the wound after the bleeding had slowed some. The ball was still in there, complicating matters. He didn't think it had struck bone, mercifully, but the middle of the forest was hardly the place to try digging it out. Himself, no less.

He'd tried getting up once but his leg had been completely unable to bear any weight; he wouldn't be limping his way back to the base camp on his own. An involuntary shudder tore through him at the reminder of the recruits leaving him here. Though his mind knew this wasn't the same, his body was betraying him, slipping back into the shock of a white-washed forest splashed with blood. He had not been left alone with the dead this time, and Athos and Porthos would come looking for him as soon as they heard what happened. He just had to keep the wound from bleeding, keep his breathing under control, and wait.

"Over here!" an unfamiliar voice shouted.

Aramis closed his eyes in resignation as several pairs of boots stomped over to his position.

"Told ya I shot one o' 'em," a grizzly man leered.

Aramis watched grimly as a group of six surrounded him. "You attacked the Baron LaRoche's men," he said. "He will not look kindly on that."

The men sniggered at each other. "An' they went squealing like a bunch o' piglets. Soon everyone will know of the Baron LaRoche's dishonorable regiment."

Aramis frowned. "Your attack was to dissuade him?" He looked over their cloth, which wasn't as poor as he would have expected for common bandits. In fact, he noticed a small patch on each of their sleeves that denoted another regiment. He leaned his head back wearily. "Let me guess, the Baron de Huron objects to his neighbor founding a competitive regiment that vies for the glory of the King's attention."

The leader smirked. "He's no simpleton," he remarked to his compatriots, cocking his head at Aramis.

"I'm a musketeer."

That gave them pause, though he should have known it wouldn't have made much of a difference.

The leader's face cracked into a predatory grin. "Then let's have our own training session with the musketeer," he sneered.

Two men moved forward and seized him by the arms, hauling him to his feet. He couldn't help but cry out as his leg refused to hold him up, and he was flung to the ground again. The men circled him, and Aramis tried to brace himself for what kind of attack they'd initiate, but before the first blow could be delivered, two pistol shots split the air, and the two men closest to Aramis dropped like logs. He rolled over to see Athos and Porthos breaking through the trees, blades brandished. The two musketeers charged toward the remaining four men, the clash of steel echoing in a discordant clang through the woods.

Aramis crawled to get out of the way, one hand wrapping around the hilt of his parrying dagger in case there was an opening to throw it. There wasn't; his friends made quick work of the mercenary soldiers. Then they were sheathing their blades and rushing to Aramis's side.

"You alright?" Porthos asked, looking him over worriedly.

"I've been better." He tried not to flinch as Athos examined his wounded leg. "The ball's still in there."

Athos's mouth thinned. "Can you walk?"

"Not without help."

They each took him under the arm and heaved him up, then stepped close to lend support as he tried to keep his full weight on one leg. It was going to be arduous and time consuming, basically hopping his way back to camp, but he was determined to make it.

"I can't believe they left you here," Porthos growled. "The bleedin' cowards."

"They were frightened," Aramis found himself defending them, even as his heart quailed at the double memories overlaying themselves in his mind.

Athos paused to give him a knowing look. "Swordsmanship, fighting skills, marksmanship, those things can be taught. Courage can't. These men can carry a musket and the Baron can line them up in a row in shiny uniforms, but they will never be great soldiers."

Aramis sighed. "That was their purpose—the men who attacked us. They were from a rival regiment."

Silence fell between them as Aramis struggled to get over some uneven ground.

"What do we do when we get back?" Porthos brought up.

"After Aramis has seen a physician and is declared fit for travel, we leave," Athos replied. "The baron's regiment will not be receiving the Musketeers' endorsement."

"He won't like that."

Aramis knew very well what Athos thought about the baron not liking that.

"I knew you'd come back for me," he said. He knew what they'd likely been thinking when they'd found out what happened.

"Damn straight," Porthos huffed.

Athos was silent for a moment, then, "That, also, can't be taught."


	27. Ransom

27\. Ransom — Aramis

Athos stared at the note he'd been handed by a messenger boy, mulling over its puzzling contents. Was it some kind of joke? It certainly wasn't humorous. Was it a threat? A warning?

"What's up?" d'Artagnan asked, sliding into the bench seat across the table from him.

"I'm not sure." Athos passed him the note.

D'Artagnan scanned it, then furrowed his brow as he handed it back. "Um, that's…weird."

"Indeed." He'd never received a ransom note for _himself_ before.

It was a fairly standard ransom note: some unnamed criminal demanding payment for the release of one Comte de la Fère. It had been delivered to the Musketeer garrison, as it was well known that said Comte had no living family who would pay, and there was where the note diverged into the more strange, for it informed the letter recipient that the Comte's seal in order to retrieve his funds was kept in a locked box in his room at the garrison.

Only, it wasn't, because he didn't have a room at the garrison and he _did_ carry his signet on his person in case he ever found himself in an extenuating circumstance.

So, basically, he had absolutely no idea what to make of this.

Porthos joined him and d'Artagnan at the table, settling down with a bowl of porridge.

Athos looked around the yard. "Where's Aramis?"

"Haven't seen 'im," Porthos replied between mouthfuls.

Athos pursed his mouth and looked at the note again.

"Athos just received a ransom note for himself," d'Artagnan informed Porthos.

The larger musketeer frowned. "Huh?"

"That's what I said."

"It wasn't specifically delivered to me," he corrected. "I just happened to be passing through the gate when it arrived."

"Sayin' you've been kidnapped?" Porthos checked.

"The Comte de la Fère."

He shook his head. "Someone's either really confused or jus' plain mad."

It seemed that way, and yet the details of the note were so specific. Wrong, certainly, but claiming his seal was accessible so a musketeer could retrieve the funds for him…that seemed rather thought out and—almost—logical.

"D'Artagnan, will you go check if Aramis is in his room," Athos said.

The boy quirked an odd look at him. "Okay…" He stood up and left.

When he came back a few minutes later, he was alone.

"I can't be sure, but it doesn't look like he made it in last night."

Athos's lips thinned.

"He's probably in some woman's bed," Porthos said.

"Except apparently he hasn't been doing that much lately," d'Artagnan replied, his attention focused on Athos.

"He was with me last night," Athos admitted. "He helped me home after I had a little too much to drink." Not because he'd been intentionally trying to drown himself in wine but just that he hadn't paid too much attention on keeping count of the bottles he went through.

Porthos pushed his porridge away. "Yer not actually suggestin' what I think yer suggestin'. Because that's jus' crazy."

Athos regarded the ransom note again, then stood. "I think it prudent we check out the location for the exchange."

Exchanging a nervous look, Porthos and d'Artagnan got up to follow.

The location was an old house on the edge of the city with a large dirt lot in front of it. Two armed men were loitering outside the main doors, lending credence to this kidnapped scenario.

"So, what's the plan?" d'Artagnan asked, surveying the situation from their one place of cover across the street.

"I suppose I will offer them payment," Athos said. "Be ready."

He stepped out from the alleyway and crossed the street toward the house. The men on guard straightened at his approach, hands going to the hilts of their swords. Athos rested his hand on his weapon in turn.

One of the men slipped inside the house and a moment later re-emerged with another man in tow.

"Who are you?" the third asked sharply.

Athos was beginning to doubt this whole charade, if these people didn't even recognize him.

"A musketeer," he replied just as tersely. "I received your note."

The man narrowed his eyes. "And did you bring the payment?"

Perhaps not a charade after all.

"I want proof of life first."

The leader of this little band of kidnappers waited for a beat before he nodded to the thug behind him. That man disappeared back into the house, leaving the doors wide open. He returned leading someone who was bound and gagged, drawing to a stop while still inside the corridor. But Athos could see well enough. He had no idea how this situation had come to be, but he was going to resolve it.

He drew his money pouch from his pocket. "Release him."

"Give me the money first."

"Bring him out and we'll meet halfway."

The man's jaw ticked, but he gave a sharp jerk of his head for his goon to bring Aramis out. As they slowly made their way across the yard, Athos slowly closed the distance between them as well, getting a better look at Aramis. He had a bruise under one eye but seemed unharmed. The marksman's expression was carefully composed and watching Athos like a hawk for a cue or signal as to what to expect. Unfortunately, Athos was going to have to wing it.

He surreptitiously reached one hand behind him to tap the pistol clipped to his belt, hoping Porthos and d'Artagnan got the message.

"Money, now," the lead kidnapper demanded as they met in the middle of the yard.

Athos met Aramis's gaze calmly. Without breaking that eye contact to look at the criminals, he said, "Catch," and tossed the money pouch into the air. Then he grabbed Aramis by the arms and yanked him out of the distracted goon's grip and flung them both to the ground. Two pistol shots cracked the air.

Athos rolled and drew his pistol, taking out the third man who'd stayed by the door. He whipped his gaze around; all three kidnappers were down. That had gone much easier than he'd imagined.

Aramis tried to pull himself up into a sitting position but struggled with his hands tied behind his back. Athos reached over and tugged the cloth gag out of his mouth first, then pulled out his gauche to cut him free. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," he said, turning to spit in the dirt.

Porthos and d'Artagnan jogged over, their swords drawn.

"Are there any more of them?" Porthos asked, gaze torn between Aramis and the house.

"No," the marksman replied. "Just those three." He pushed himself to his feet. "Thanks for coming. I wasn't entirely sure you would take them seriously."

Athos leveled a dry look at him. "How, pray tell, did they mistake you for the Comte de la Fère?"

Aramis grimaced. "Well, I ran into them after leaving your apartments last night. They mentioned they were looking for the Comte de la Fère, so I told them they'd found him." He spread his arms in a what-are-you-gonna-do manner.

Athos shook his head. "What were you thinking?" he chided.

Aramis shrugged. "I figured it was my turn to stand in front of the angry mob for my brother, seeing as how he was indisposed at the time."

Athos sighed, but there was fondness in his exasperation now. He reached out and clasped the back of Aramis's neck. "Let's not make a habit of this."

The fool just grinned. "One for all, right?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight nod to #5 Gunpoint at the end there if you can recall.


	28. Beaten

28\. Beaten — d'Artagnan

D'Artagnan grunted as another kick landed in his ribs. With his hands bound behind his back, he was unable to protect himself. He tried curling inward, but the blows struck his back and shoulders instead. One boot connected with his stomach, driving the wind from him in a hoarse, gasping heave. He turned his head into the dirt in an effort to muffle the whimper that escaped past his lips.

Sniggers wafted above him, accompanied by a few more rough pokes and nudges. Not a single inch of him didn't sing with pain.

"Not so tough now, are you whelp?"

Fighting to get his breathing back, d'Artagnan painfully angled his head up to look at the red guards. "You won't get away with this," he wheezed.

The ringleader sneered. "No? You're not even a real musketeer. No one's going to come for you."

D'Artagnan merely glared back at him through sweat laden hair falling over his eyes. His friends would come for him.

The red guard smirked at the defiance in his gaze. "You're thinking of the famed Inseparables? There's a reason they're called the three. You," he paused to toe d'Artagnan in the stomach. "You're just the little orphan pup following them around begging for scraps. They tolerate you because they find it amusing. That's all."

D'Artagnan bit the inside of his cheek and looked away. He didn't believe that. Athos, Porthos, and Aramis…they'd welcomed him among their ranks easily, let him tag along on missions in the hopes that he could earn his own commission. It wasn't pity or- or entertainment. They believed in him. Athos believed in him…

"This is illegal," he ground out.

"We caught you loitering," the red guard replied smarmily. "You refused to move along. We had to teach you a lesson."

D'Artagnan gritted his teeth. These men had no honor, no qualms.

A pistol shot cracked the air and the guard's helmet went flying off his head, jerking him to the side in the process. The others drew their swords as those "famed" Inseparables came swooping in, blades glinting in the sun.

"Yer the one who needs a lesson," Porthos growled.

D'Artagnan tried to roll out of the way as the skirmish began, the clang of steel pealing across the courtyard of the old ruins. The three musketeers were a force to behold. Porthos was all brawn and brute violence, barreling through his scrawny opponents as though they were twigs. Athos moved like water, swift and fluid in each thrust and riposte he delivered, cutting down his targets like a strike of lightning. Aramis was just as elegant, though with a flair and flourish like a devilish sprite out of Hell.

They broke upon the red guards with righteous fury and retribution. D'Artagnan would have liked to return some of what he'd gotten, but he was forced to watch from his place on the ground, awed at both the brutality and restraint, for the musketeers were careful not to actually kill any of the red guards. But that didn't keep them from giving them all a thorough thrashing, and when the three were done, the ground was littered with groaning bodies.

Aramis sheathed his sword and hurried to d'Artagnan. His expression twisted with bitter sympathy as he crouched down next to him and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "You're a painful sight."

D'Artagnan huffed, then winced as the puff of breath jarred his rib cage.

Athos knelt behind him and cut his bonds, then helped brace him as d'Artagnan carefully extricated the arm he'd been lying on.

Porthos stood a few feet away, glowering gaze roving over the red guards in case any of them decided to try getting up. "What'd you do to piss off this lot?" he asked over his shoulder.

D'Artagnan grimaced and bit back a whimper as Aramis and Athos eased him upright into a sitting position. "Apparently I just had to get out of bed—" He yelped as Aramis probed his ribs.

"They're just bruised," the marksman declared.

"As is the rest of me."

"We'll report this to Treville," Athos said.

Porthos snorted. "Not that it will do much. The captain and the Cardinal will jus' get into a shoutin' match and _we'll_ likely end up in the stocks for a day for whippin' these bastards."

D'Artagnan didn't want that. "It's alright," he said breathlessly, gritting his teeth under the rest of Aramis's examination. "I think you punished them sufficiently."

"Perhaps," Athos conceded, though with a thread of further violence still near the surface.

"They will certainly think twice before targeting you again," Aramis added.

D'Artagnan couldn't help but smile to himself. His friends would always come for him, no matter what.

He was beaten, but not defeated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In addition to the rest of Whumptober, I have a fic for Halloween I'm going to post the first part of tomorrow.


	29. Numb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These last three prompts are linked. Also, friendly reminder that I don't do death fics.

29\. Numb — Athos (& Aramis)

Athos stared at the pile of carcasses, faces obscured by grime and blood but here and there a leather pauldron with the fleur-de-lis splashed with the colors of war. It had been Athos's decision to split the regiment, to send half east to circle around the Spanish contingent so the Musketeers could attack on two fronts. He had not counted on that troop changing direction and moving east as well—nor the second they joined up with right before intercepting the splintered Musketeer group. By the time scouts got word to Athos and the others, their comrades had been under siege for three days.

And by the time reinforcements had arrived, it was all over.

Athos stood in the middle of the bloodbath, arms hanging limply at his sides, his legs mired in the splotched mud. The Spanish had stripped the bodies of their weapons before discarding them like garbage. Not one had been spared, neither soldier nor civilian.

Athos's gaze fell on a swatch of blue among the corpses. Out on the front lines, such vibrant color was a liability, but Aramis hadn't given up his sash, just tied it around his waist under his doublet. The same doublet that was now streaked with crimson, half buried under other sprawling limbs and bloody torsos. Athos couldn't tear his eyes away from it.

_"You'll lead a group east, circle around behind the Spanish contingent. We'll meet up again when we close in on them."_

_Aramis nodded sagely. He'd abandoned his decision to stay at the monastery when he'd heard that war had broken out, but Athos could tell he remained conflicted over it, as though breaking his vow in order to defend his country and brothers somehow only drove him further and further from God's grace, and the penance he believed he needed to serve was compounding against him._

To culminate here, in a bloody battlefield far from home. And far from his brothers. Because Athos had sent Porthos and d'Artagnan with the other group west. Because he'd stayed behind to coordinate with the other regiments. And because of that, Aramis had died alone, in a horrific slaughter.

Athos felt as though something had died within him as well. He was numb, cold. He thought he should have felt overwhelming grief or rage, but there was only a shriveled up dead husk inside his sternum. He couldn't move, couldn't blink.

Oh God, how was he going to tell Porthos and d'Artagnan when they arrived? The thought of their devastation finally sent a crack through his paralyzed stupor, squeezing his lungs like a vise and pricking at his eyes.

"Captain!" someone shouted. Athos didn't care who it was. He wasn't fit to be a captain, to bear the weight of these decisions and this responsibility, to bear the crushing knowledge that he'd sent his brother to his death.

"Captain," the voice came again, louder and closer. Joubert's expression was harried as he jogged up. "It's Aramis. He's alive."

Athos blinked at the man. "What are you talking about?"

"He's inside the monastery. Gravely wounded, but alive," Joubert went on urgently.

Athos continued to stare at him in incomprehension. Aramis was right there, with the other fallen soldiers…

Joubert turned and made a hastened beeline back toward the monastery at the edge of the field. Athos woodenly went after him, mind spinning. _Aramis, alive_. _Alive. How? Dear God, do not let this be some cruel trick._

He followed Joubert through the broken gates, past chunks of debris and other signs of the siege, and into the main hall.

"This is Brother Henri," Joubert introduced him to a man in a monk's robe. "This is Athos, Captain of the Musketeers."

Brother Henri inclined his head in acknowledgement. "I am sorry for the loss of your men."

A spiky lump pressed against his throat and Athos fought for that numbing composure to remain. "I'm told there's one still alive," he said, voice cracking.

Brother Henri nodded and gestured for them to follow him down a corridor. "He was wounded early in the battle. We tended it as best we could, but he insisted on returning to his post. The soldiers had barricaded themselves within our walls at that point and the Spanish were laying siege. Unfortunately, infection set in and we brought him down here."

The monk opened a heavy oak door into a large room that had been turned into a makeshift infirmary. Only a few of the cots were occupied, mostly with children huddled together. One in the back had a still figure with a head of dark hair and Athos found himself holding his breath as he crossed the room.

Aramis's pallor was waxen, accented sharply by dark crescents under his closed eyes. Sweat beaded his brow and every breath eked out in a staccato strain past bloodless lips. Athos dropped to his knees beside the cot and placed a hand on his brother's brow. It burned with fever.

He stared in disbelief. "How is he alive?" he breathed.

"By the grace of God," Brother Henri replied.

Athos gave himself a small shake, some of his levelheadedness finally returning. "No. The Spanish would never leave a French soldier alive. And where's his coat?" The question came out demanding, because Athos knew where Aramis's coat was. He just didn't know how it'd gotten there.

Brother Henri's expression was filled with regret. "When the Spanish broke through, they did round up all the French soldiers, and the citizens who had been taking refuge here, except the children. When they found him," he nodded to Aramis, "the fever had already taken him. He was muttering prayers in Spanish. I was quite surprised, but the soldiers thought he was a prisoner of the French troops. I did not correct their assumption, and they decided to leave him here in our care."

Athos reeled back in shock.

"As for his coat," Brother Henri went on, "I'm afraid one of the refugees stole it once he was senseless."

Athos looked back at his ailing brother—_alive_—and yet not out of danger. "Joubert, bring our medical supplies."

The other musketeer nodded and quickly left.

Athos leaned close. "I'm here, Aramis. Keep fighting."

Fire ignited deep in his sternum and thawed the icy numbness with a desperate call to wage war once more. There was still a chance…a chance for Fate to change its mind and take Aramis from him. But at least this time, Athos would not leave his brother to battle alone.


	30. Recovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuing from yesterday's prompt.

30\. Recovery — Aramis

"His fever's broken."

Athos looked up from the plate of gruel he'd barely touched in the past twenty minutes.

Brother Henri gave him a sympathetic look. The past two days had been fraught with tension and the very real possibility that Aramis would succumb to his infected wound. Athos had more or less forsaken his captain duties to stay by his friend's side, changing out the poultices, wiping his fevered brow, and plying him with herbal tonics. After he had found Aramis miraculously alive after a slaughter, he had sworn not to let his brother die alone and he damn well wasn't going to fail in that. The only times he'd let himself be torn away was for a few hours' sleep here and there and meager sustenance, the Brother's argument being that Athos would do Aramis no good if he ran himself into the ground.

Now he pushed his plate aside and rose to his feet, heading for the corridor that led to the infirmary. Inside, Aramis looked much the same as he had these past few days, but when Athos placed the back of his hand against his brother's brow, he found it blessedly, normally, warm.

Aramis made a soft sound at the touch and Athos quickly turned his palm over to rest atop the dark curls. Heavy eyelids slowly peeled open partway.

Athos smiled. "It's good to see you, brother," he whispered.

Aramis gazed at him blearily for a moment before letting out a soft sigh and falling back asleep.

The turning point, while a monumental victory in itself, was only the beginning of Aramis's journey of recovery. The bullet wound in his side had done a lot of damage and the infection had depleted a great deal of his strength. The next few days were mostly spent sleeping, and when he was awake, whoever his caregiver was tried to get him to drink as much broth as he could handle.

Porthos and d'Artagnan arrived in that time, having finally broken away from their troop once their position on the front line had been secured. Any other commander might have cited them for dereliction of duty, but Athos could hardly fault them for doing what he essentially was. Besides, the regiment was currently in a holding pattern while strategies were discussed and plans were made. Porthos and d'Artagnan's presence helped release Athos from some of his constant vigil so he could partake in some of those messages like he was supposed to.

But his heart and thoughts were never far from his brother.

Aramis gradually began to remain awake for longer periods, slowly began to regain the ability to sit up without exhausting himself too much. But lucidity came with a cost and one day Aramis asked why he was the only wounded patient in the infirmary—the siege had been fierce; surely others had to have been injured.

Athos took a seat on the cot next to his and steeled himself to deliver the news. "You were the only survivor."

Aramis stared at him unblinking for a long moment before the color drained from his face. Porthos was on his feet in an instant and taking Aramis by the shoulders to ease him back against the pillows.

Athos's chest constricted, and he wondered if this was what Treville had felt after ordering twenty-two men on a training exercise so many years ago. He had been so relieved that Aramis had survived this…it hadn't even occurred to him the pain that came for the one left alive while his compatriots, his friends, all perished. He'd felt it for only a brief moment himself, when he thought Aramis dead. To live with it would have been unbearable.

Aramis's recovery suffered a setback after that. His fever returned, not as high, but he refused to eat, which did not help his already weakened state.

This time Athos kept his distance. He had caused this, both with his initial decision and for being the one to shatter Aramis's precarious state of mind. Not for the first time, he questioned his ability to be a leader.

Porthos and d'Artagnan were steadfast though, as he knew they would be, and after a few rough days, they managed to get Aramis eating again.

"It's not your fault," d'Artagnan said one morning as they watched from the hallway as Porthos helped Aramis take shaky steps around the room.

Athos was reminded of a scene just like this in the garrison courtyard, back before he knew those two men or called them brother.

"But it is my responsibility."

He was quicker to give up his cowardice this time and resumed taking his turn looking after Aramis. The days dragged on. Messages came and went, along with streams of refugees. Sometimes cannon fire could be heard echoing in the distance.

Athos kept a hand on Aramis's elbow as the marksman staggered toward a chair after a walk in the garden and collapsed into it with a wince. Athos wordlessly moved to pour him a cup of water and brought it back over.

"Thank you," he murmured and sipped at it slowly.

Athos squeezed his shoulder and shifted toward the window. The clomping of horse hooves and jingle of tack could be heard as the rest of the regiment arrived.

"When do we leave?" Aramis spoke up.

Athos sighed inwardly. That was a decision that had been weighing on him as captain, while as a friend, he had not wanted to leave his wounded brother. "We have orders to join up with General Marchand's troop in a few days' time. So, the rest of us will be heading out tomorrow, at the latest."

Aramis's expression darkened. "You're leaving me behind," he said flatly.

Athos grabbed another chair and pulled it up next to him, taking a seat. "When you've fully recovered, you can rejoin us. Brother Henri is happy to have you remain here until that time."

Aramis looked away, then let out a humorless laugh. "I've ended up in a monastery after all."

Athos's lips twitched at the irony.

A haunted look overcame Aramis then and he whispered, "I deserve this."

Athos frowned. "Aramis—"

"I broke my vow. I failed at command. _Again_. You would think death would be God's choice of punishment, but I see now that it's not, it's to be sentenced to life carrying the ball and chain of guilt and knowing there is nothing you can do to earn back your redemption."

He clenched his fists in his lap, but it didn't quell the shaking Athos could obviously see.

"Is that what you think your life is?" Athos hissed. "Punishment? Because your brothers would say differently. I thought you _dead_, Aramis. To find you not is a mercy I could never deserve." He shook his head. "I shouldn't have suggested we go to Douai. I should have honored your decision and let you be."

"I could not have sat by while you went to war," Aramis countered.

Athos gave him a sad look of fondness. "I know. Perhaps this is a sign from God, Aramis, but not the one you think. Stay here, take this time to heal, both body and soul. You have borne more wounds to both than most."

"The war—"

"Will still be there," Athos said solemnly. He reached out to clasp the back of his friend's neck. "And call me selfish, but I am not willing to let you be a casualty of it."

Aramis's eyes wavered with too many emotions to count—grief, regret, guilt. Healing those wounds would not come so easily. But Athos decided he could have faith in it. Aramis had proven himself resilient against the worst odds time and time again. And while it pained Athos to have to leave him, he knew they would not be far in heart and mind, and he knew his brother would be all right, in time.


	31. Embrace

31\. Embrace — Constance, d'Artagnan, Porthos, Aramis, Athos

The Musketeer garrison was never quiet. There was always hustling and bustling, things to do, recruits to keep in line. Managing it all kept Constance's hands busy and mind occupied during the long years of the war. Only at night when she lay down next to the empty place in her bed did her heart and mind turn to thoughts of her husband and friends. Sometimes she'd lay awake for hours praying for their safe return.

She received advance word, of course, when they were summoned back to Paris, and she had been jittery with anticipation since, puttering around the garrison to make sure everything was in order for its captain. There were stores to stock and rooms to clean and shirts to be mended. And so business in the garrison went on as usual, until a stillness swept through it.

Constance paused in her task of counting sacks of grain and looked up to find the young recruits all staring past her, expressions somewhat rapt with awe. Coming down the street toward the gate were four soldiers on foot, leading their horses behind them. Both men and steeds were decked out in armor, but it was the rest of their appearance that bespoke their return from the battlefield and not departure.

Porthos held his horse's reins in one hand, his other arm tucked in a sling. His curls poofed out in frizzy clumps about his head. Athos bore no visible wounds but he was changed, Constance could tell right away. He walked with the weight of someone carrying the burdens of war and leadership, and yet those seemed lighter than the darkness he had carried for so long when they'd first known each other.

Aramis, on the other hand, lacked that jaunt Constance was so used to seeing in his step. There was a sageness in his bearing that had aged him more than years could.

And then d'Artagnan…Constance's breath caught in her throat at the sight of him. He seemed to have barely changed and yet there was a distinct presence in his gait now, one of surety and confidence.

For a moment, Constance was as enraptured as all the awe-struck boys seeing the famed Musketeer war heroes for the first time. But then d'Artagnan's face cracked into a beaming smile as he reached the archway and he dropped his horse's reins to jog inside and scoop Constance up in an elated embrace. She threw her arms around his neck and squeezed back just as fervently, a half delirious laugh bubbling forth.

"I missed you," she breathed in his ear.

"I missed you more."

She gave him a lighthearted slap and he beamed wider as he released her. Constance turned to the others who had finally entered the yard, Aramis having picked up the reins of d'Artagnan's horse.

She went to Porthos first, eyeing the sling with a touch of concern. "Is it serious?" she asked.

"Nah. Be outta it in a day or two," he replied with a shrug of his good shoulder.

"Says you," d'Artagnan snorted.

Constance couldn't help but smile at the banter, and she reached out to gingerly give Porthos a hug, mindful of his injured arm. Even with only one arm, he managed to give her a heartfelt squish.

Stepping back, she turned to Aramis next, giving him a more critical look. His return smile was more reserved. D'Artagnan had written to her sometimes, told her about the siege in which they'd almost lost their marksman.

"Oh, Aramis," Constance sighed and pulled him into her arms. He tucked his chin into her shoulder and just stood there, soaking in the embrace. She felt a surge of irrational protectiveness for these men who were like her brothers but who had far more battle prowess than she could ever possess.

After several long beats he finally pulled back and there was that twinkle in his eye again. Constance gave his forearm an encouraging squeeze. There would be time to plumb the depths of their hurts, both physical and mental from the horrors they'd endured, time for her to patch them up bit by bit.

She turned to Athos last whose warm expression took her aback, for it looked so easy and natural on him. She hadn't been sure he would have welcomed such a gesture, but there was an openness that had her closing the distance. Their hug was bracing, a shoring up of reunited family.

"I looked after things while you were gone," she said tentatively. "Hopefully it's satisfactory."

Athos smiled genuinely as he pulled back. "I have every confidence it is."

They looked around at each other, a tension they'd carried for the past four years beginning to loosen, beginning to settle. They were home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus concludes Whumptober. Thanks so much again to everyone who left a comment this month. Things have been rough with various health-related issues, and every comment is just a nice bright spot in the middle of sometimes very emotionally exhausting days. At least I'm still able to write through it, and I'm excited to share what I've got coming up!


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